The Sun Dog
by enembee
Summary: I am Harry Potter and I've just destroyed everything; space, time, matter and all twenty-six dimensions of our fragile little world in the twinkling of an eye. I am Harry Potter and I have just irreparably violated Global Causality. Take that Hawking.
1. Chapter 1

**THE SUN DOG  
by enembee**

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**A/N:** This is probably the strangest work of fiction I've ever undertaken. Also, aside from the first two chapters which have undergone scrutiny by the kind folks at DLP, the first time that I've written an un-beta'd fic. As always, check the DLP C2 in my profile and subscribe, there's some incredible works of fiction in there and some really talented authors who really deserve some additional reviews. Anyway, if you like this, drop me a review, either way, sit back and enjoy the ride.

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**Act 1, Scene 1**

_These are the last words of a dying universe._

_My name is Harry Potter and I just destroyed everything; space, time, space-time, matter, dark matter, anti-matter, all twenty-six dimensions of our fragile little world in the twinkling of an eye._

_The fabric of creation peeled apart, cut to ribbons under the blade of my will, wrenched apart particle by particle. They gave me a universe and I reduced it to dust. _

_Accidentally, of course. _

_Though I must admit that I was warned. _

_But by those same people also told me I couldn't do it, that it couldn't possibly work. Ding dong go fuck yourself. A million points to Gryffindor for an extraordinary bit of charm work Mr. Potter._

_Shame I've got to go and lose them all again for fucking everything up._

_So yeah, depressing isn't it? That this is what we're ending everything with. _

_A disembodied voice being fired through, well, something science doesn't really have a name for and that I'm going to call- lets see- squirrdlejuppe. _

_Why squirrdlejuppe?_

_Because I can, that's why!_

_It's a good name. Squirrdlejuppe; the place between places. The endlessness hidden in nothing. Doesn't it just ring off the tongue?_

_I think I'm probably trying too hard to justify myself to you. _

_Which leads to the question of; who does a disembodied voice trapped in the place between places spend his time talking to exactly?_

_Myself, of course. _

_And you. I suppose. _

_I'm drifting off topic._

_Forgive me I've been here a very long time._

_And then again, almost no time at all. _

_Let's try this again:_

_I am Harry Potter, simultaneous defender and destroyer of the world._

_I am Harry Potter and I have just done the most brilliant and stupid thing that any person has ever done. _

_I am Harry Potter and I have just irreparably violated Global Causality._

_Take that Hawking._

**:tsd:**

It was fear that clutched at Petunia's heart as she tapped her way up and down the immaculate tiled floor, her hands almost wringing in worry.

Something terrible had happened, she knew it in the depths of her soul. Ten minutes ago, she'd received a call from the hospital and she hadn't even bothered to allow the nurse to explain. She'd leapt in the car and headed here without even hanging up the phone, as though her presence was imperative for his well being.

Now, instead of being well informed and at home with a cup of tea and her feet up, she was standing in a cold waiting room, speculating and worrying.

Not for the first time in her life, she wished that Harry Potter had never darkened her doorstep, she wished that she'd never even seen the boy, let alone accepted him as family. Harry's presence in her life was an unending nuisance that plagued her existence.

The sharp click of heels against the tiles turned her head as a white coated doctor approached her, wearing a sombre expression that didn't suit his young, handsome face. He opened a covered clipboard he held in his hands, the same kind Petunia had seen on hospital dramas on TV, his expression didn't lighten as he glanced at it.

"Mrs. Dursley?" he asked and she nodded. A long pause drifted between them that the doctor tried several times to break, before finally meeting success. "I think you'd better come with me."

He turned immediately, clearly uncomfortable with his task, and began to walk away, his polished shoes clicking with each step. He turned when he noticed Petunia wasn't following him.

She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing but a squeak emerged. They both hesitated, then the doctor returned to her side and took her hand, the slight touch enough to catch her on the brink of tears. When she looked up, their eyes met and she could see equal amounts of hesitation and distress mirrored in his dark brown eyes.

"Mrs. Dursley, I don't know quite how to say this," he began. "He appears to have fallen into a state of complete catatonia. He is clearly conscious, but is exhibiting no response to external stimuli at all. We've tried several usual procedures, but he hasn't responded to any of them."

"Is there anything else you can do?" she asked, finding her voice.

"There are a couple of risky, experimental procedures we could try," began the doctor, and then shook his head. "There's no evidence of any underlying cause. We'd prefer to leave him until morning, to see if it wears off on its own."

Petunia looked at him in confusion.

"No underlying cause?" she repeated.

"That is to say," replied the doctor hurriedly. "We believe it is a reaction to severe emotional turmoil than an infectious or inherited disease."

"I see," said Petunia, although she didn't really.

"Would you like to see him?" he asked, then without waiting for a response, lead her in the direction of the ward, her taps coinciding perfectly with his clicks.

It was not a ward like any she'd seen before. The two times she'd been hospitalized herself she'd been in one of a handful of beds in a large room, separated only by curtains. This ward however, was a long corridor lined with doors, each with a tiny window at eye level.

Despite the strong chemical smell of cleanser, the long pristine hallway, the white walls and bright lights, it felt sinister somehow.

She increased her pace to remain closer to the doctor guiding her.

At the end of the corridor they turned left onto an almost identical one. This too raised all the hairs on Petunia's neck and arms as they walked along the corridor, leaving her with an uncomfortable prickling sensation.

Near the end of this corridor, stood a man in a long dark coat, with an identical sombre expression to the doctor with her. As they approached him, he stepped forward and offered a gloved hand to Petunia, which she took, grasping the leather momentarily between her dainty fingers.

"Mrs. Dursley?" he asked with the faintest drawl of an Irish accent, Petunia nodded. "I'm Detective Driscoll, I've been assigned-"

"I'm sorry," interrupted Petunia in a sharp tone. "The doctor said he was in shock, has he done something wrong?"

"No, Mrs. Dursley," replied Driscoll, soothingly. "We found your son on Gate Street in Little Whinging with severe cuts to his hands and face."

Petunia stood momentarily rooted to the spot, unable to take breath let alone speak.

"It is our estimation," continued Driscoll. "That your son was attacked and that is the cause of his current state of shock."

Several agonising moments passed while Petunia couldn't find the will to speak, then with a little half gasp she said, "Can I see him?"

The policeman nodded and signalled the doctor forward, who opened the door at the end of the corridor and stepped inside. Petunia followed him warily, terrified of what she would find. When she caught sight of him lying motionless on the bed, she couldn't help but gasp.

For a moment she stood frozen, staring at his pale skin, of the neatly stitched cuts on his face, the utter blankness of his expression, the tiny flecks of drool at the corner of her mouth. A tiny shudder of revulsion ran through her.

Driscoll put his hand on her shoulder and she slowly turned back to him, tears shimmering in her eyes.

"Now, Mrs. Dursley," he said, his composure helping to strengthen hers. "Can you think of any reason that your son might have been attacked like this."

"I'm sorry Detective," she whispered hoarsely. "But this isn't my son."

"Excuse me?" asked Driscoll, in complete astonishment. "Are you meaning to say, you've never seen-"

"No, no," interrupted Petunia, shaking her head. "I know him, I just didn't think to correct you before, he's my nephew."

"I see," replied Driscoll, though he clearly didn't. "And his parents?"

Petunia turned back to stare down at Harry. She hadn't even thought about it. Would he want- No, no, that's not at all what he'd want. She was certain of it. She turned back to Driscoll.

They're- They're unavailable," she stammered, though she could see the disbelief in his eyes.

"Right," said the detective, clearly unconvinced. "Well in that case, we're going to need his real name for the sake of our files."

"Harry James Potter," replied Petunia, then turned back to Harry. "His parents are James and Lily Potter."

"Right," said Driscoll, then whispered something to the doctor before raising his voice again. "Mrs. Dursley, I'm going to go make some inquiries and see if we can't make his parents available, in the mean time, if you could return to the waiting room."

Petunia turned sharply.

"I'd rather stay with him," she said.

Driscoll and the doctor exchanged a significant glance. Then Driscoll nodded slowly.

"Alright, I suppose that's fine," then he headed towards the door, before pausing between the frame. "Before I forget, Mrs. Dursley. Where do you live?"

"Privet Drive, Little Whinging," replied Petunia immediately, without really thinking.

Driscoll smiled nastily, "That's not too far from Gate Street, is it Mrs. Dursley?"

"No," said Petunia, blinking. "I don't suppose it is."

"No," repeated Driscoll. "Not too far at all."

When he left, Petunia moved to sit on Harry's bed and look down at him. Her fingers gently traced the stitches in his face. They stretched across his cheeks, as though someone with sharp nails had raked them across his face.

She understood what Driscoll had been implying. He would have been well aware of Vernon's short temper and his habit of binge drinking that had so often gotten him in trouble.

She shifted a lank lock of hair from Harry's face and stared down into his expressionless green eyes. Not for the first time they made her think of her sister; bitter unpleasant thoughts.

Not for the first time, Petunia felt the resentment rise in her. She was not jealous of Lily's magic, her husband, her friends and her world. Once she'd been jealous that Lily had been torn from her life, but now she was just jealous of her son.

He should have been hers by right.

He'd never fit into their world. The polar opposite of Lily; a normal person born into a magic family. What was it that they'd called him? A squib. The outcast. Of their three children; he was the black sheep.

They loved him of course, but they were disappointed, they just couldn't see what Petunia saw. That he was perfect.

It was hidden under the bitterness of course. A bitterness that was he was bound to have had as a reject. The same bitterness Petunia felt in her life in perfect Little Whinging.

And they'd found solace in each other. Completely by accident. He'd been to a job interview in Little Whinging and they'd just bumped into each other. It'd been awkward at first, tentative.

But he'd found something with her that he couldn't have otherwise; normality. Likewise, Petunia had found what she desperately wanted; a son.

Even Vernon had begun to accept him.

Her thoughts were violently interrupted by a commotion in the corridor outside approaching the room. A second later and the door burst inward and the room filled with people.

Petunia instinctively moved to position herself protectively between them and Harry, before she'd even realised who they were.

"Petunia?" asked a bewildered James Potter, staring at her in confusion.

"I-" she began, but her voice faltered. "I was close; he had my phone number in his wallet."

"And you didn't think to tell anyone else?" asked Sirius, with a scowl.

"I was worried," snapped Petunia.

"It's alright Tuney," said Lily, stepping forward and tugging her sister out of the way by the sleeve. "Thank you for taking care of him."

Petunia allowed herself to be dragged out of the way and instantly James sprung forward to examine Harry. He grabbed him with one hand and turned his face to and fro, an anguished expression on his face.

"Harry?" he said, his voice quavering. "Harry, talk to me."

For a moment, silence reigned.

"The doctor said-" began Petunia, but she was cut off by a loud scoffing noise from Sirius who turned to face her.

"What would a-" he began, but too was cut off by James' angry shout.

"Shut up," he roared, his voice hoarse and pain clear on his face. "He's been kissed."

Silence reigned again, this time heavy over all of their ears. Lily made a grab at Petunia and buried her face into her sister's chest, her body suddenly frail.

"Kissed?" asked Petunia in complete confusion. Nobody answered for a long period of time. "What does-?"

"Petunia!" roared James, then took a deep breath, before lifting his hand to his eyes and removing his glasses. "Just- Just get out, would you? We're going to take him home."

Petunia stared at him as though he'd just slapped her, completely unable to vocalise her outrage, her confusion, her questions. Unable to move. Unable to think.

Sirius gently prised Lily away from Petunia and she clung to him instead, still sobbing. Petunia watched James examine the various equipment attached to Harry and she shakily began to back toward the door.

"Hold it right there!" came a voice from the doorway, so loud that it made everyone leap out of their skin.

They all turned to see Detective Driscoll stood in the doorway, a livid expression on his face. Petunia found herself mentally thanking the man she'd detested ten minutes ago.

The detective barged his way through the adults in the room to put himself between James and Harry. He removed his police identification and held it before his face.

"Harry isn't going anywhere until he has been cleared by the medical staff," he said in a pompous tone.

"And you think you're going to stop us taking him, do you?" asked Sirius, with a wide, chilling smile on his face and fury in his eyes.

"Don't threaten me, sonny," replied the Detective.

Sirius responded by drawing his wand.

Before Driscoll could react, or Sirius cast a spell, an almighty scream broke through the room that made them all turn directly to the source.

Harry leapt from the bed, his bare feet crashing to the tiles. With one swift movement, he wrapped the IV in his arm around Driscoll's throat and held the Detective floundering in place as a human shield.

Green eyes darted wildly around the room as he seemed to take in his surroundings. His eyes flicked to each face in the room in turn and then he took a long shuddering breath.

"Okay so I'm not eleven. Something's wrong there. Oh look my parents, that's not right either. Sirius and- Gosh. Petunia. Okay. White walls, shit pyjamas, stupid things in my arm, diodes attached to my chest," he said, in a rapid monologue. "So I'm in a hospital. For some reason. My face feels a bit sore, my body seems to work alright though. Can't quite remember my own name or how many fingers I ought to have, hopefully that'll pass."

He took another deep breath.

"Lungs work, I guess. They don't feel quite right though; am I a smoker? Am I ginger?" he continued manically. He glanced at his own reflection in the highly polished steel bed frame. "Nope, black hair, green eyes, that's right. That's right. Gosh this is weird isn't it?"

Driscoll choked as Harry reflexively tightened his grip. James stepped forward, raising a placating hand.

"Harry?" he asked tentatively.

"Oh that's my name," said Harry brightly, as though just remembering. "Potter, Harry Potter. Shaken, not stirred. Shocking, absolutely shocking. No, that's not me, is it? Hasta la vista. Yippee-ki-yay. To infinity and beyond! Nope, none of those either. Wow, this is harder than I expected."

He looked down at Driscoll, who'd turned red in the face and relaxed his grip slightly.

"Hello," he said brightly. "I'm Harry Potter, I don't think we've met."

Driscoll just spluttered in response.

"Now that's just rude," he said and his eyes flicked up again as James took a step forward. "No, no, no, no. Stay right there, or I'll kill him."

"Harry, what's going on?" asked Lily, her eyes red and cheeks splotchy.

"What can I say?" asked Harry. "I'm a spy."

Nobody said a word for at least a minute, as they all stood there staring at him. Harry in turn frowned and looked at the floor.

"No," he said, thoughtfully. "No that's not me either. I'm Harry Potter and I'm a-"

"Squib?" offered Sirius, his eyes alight with humour, despite himself.

"Oh, am I?" asked Harry, lifting his eyebrows. "Now that's interesting. Very interesting."

"Harry," said Lily, softly. "Let the man go, please?"

Harry glanced down at Driscoll again, as though he were surprised he was still there.

"Ah, yes, in due course," he said thoughtfully. "You, Sirius, do us a favour and pass me your wand."

"But you can't use it," pointed out Petunia, in surprise.

Harry glanced up at her, blinked twice, and then smiled politely.

"Yes, but you've no magic and I don't think my parents are very likely to curse me. This only leaves Sirius who's likely to stop me."

Sirius didn't make any attempt to comply, so Harry shook Driscoll slightly.

"Don't think I won't kill him," said Harry, his expression instantly becoming cold. "I'm a desperate man with nothing to lose."

"Sirius," said James, with a wary glance at Harry.

Sirius held out his wand and Harry snatched it away with his free hand.

"Excellent. Now, I'm going to need three more things and then we can all leave happy," said Harry, then he looked down at Driscoll. "Well you won't be happy; you won't remember anything."

He looked up at Petunia and gave her another smile that she returned softly.

"Aunt Petunia, be a doll and tell me what the time is," he said and Petunia complied immediately, looking down at her slender watch.

"Eight thirty four, PM," she read.

"Perfect. Thank you. Now, does anyone know who the current Minister for Magic is?" asked Harry.

Everyone looked around in confusion.

"Tom Riddle," said James after a long time.

Harry gazed blankly at him for a second, before a wild smile crossed his face.

"Is he?" he asked thoughtfully. "Now that makes everything so much more exciting."

"And the last thing?" asked Sirius.

"Oh yes," said Harry, with another wide, unhinged smile. "Don't suppose you know the password to Dumbledore's office?"

Again everyone looked to each other then returned blank looks to Harry. Sirius shrugged.

"No?" asked Harry then gave a whimsical smile. "Oh well, I guess looking very impressive will have to substitute for looking incredibly impressive."

Harry immediately pushed Driscoll in the direction of James, who'd begun to draw his wand and the pair of men clattered into each other and fell to the floor. Harry whistled loudly and tossed Sirius' wand in the air. Simultaneously Sirius leapt forward, his hands outstretched to seize the boy.

A moment before he was grabbed, Harry disappeared in a flash of fire accompanied by the screech of some unholy bird. Sirius lost his footing and crashed down on to the bed.

Silence overwhelmed the room, broken only by the slightest of clatters as Sirius' stolen wand fell to the floor.

Petunia could only stand and stare in amazement at the utter disarray her nephew had left in his wake.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N – Short chapters, quick turn around. This is the name of the game. I'd like to put a thank you here to everyone who reviewed, I'll message you all back eventually but I had far more reviews that I expected. As usual, the DLP C2 is full of incredible stories and is accessible from my profile. It's a fantastic way to promote under-appreciated, yet brilliant writers, so please subscribe.**

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**The Sun Dog  
Act 1, Scene 2 **

Dumbledore examined the young man before him with something approaching idle curiosity. He watched as colour rose into the man's cheeks, his eyes bulged and tiny flicks of spittle flew from his mouth and over everything in the room as he screamed about some perceived injustice. Indeed the only thing to which Dumbledore paid absolutely no attention were the words coming from his potion master's mouth. There was simply no point.

In the fifteen years since Severus Snape had joined his staff he had, at least once a fortnight, sometime mores, never less, marched into Dumbledore's office with an axe to grind. This week it was the manners of a handful of fourth year Gryffindors. Two weeks earlier it had been the poltergeist.

As Dumbledore watched the man rant, a curious emotion overcame him. The headmaster had long since accepted Severus' temper as a result of his upbringing and childhood. He had, after all, been tormented as a boy by his father and bullied as a teenager by James Potter and his friends. He'd imagined his frequent bouts of rage were an understandable if unpleasant after effect of this.

However, more recently it hadn't been pity that Dumbledore had felt for his potions master. Those feelings, exhausted through years of quiet tolerance, had slowly given way to contempt. Though he'd hid it well, he had finally grown to accept that Severus Snape was not troubled, just merely unpleasant. Today however, his patience with the man had come to an end.

"I'm sorry Severus," said Dumbledore with quiet politeness interrupting the man mid-diatribe. "What exactly is the matter?"

"Aren't you even listening to me!" asked Severus, his eyes bulging incredulously.

"I assure you Severus, that I have been giving you my full attention," said Dumbledore, adopting a small smile. "However, let us pretend I haven't and start at the beginning."

Dumbledore couldn't help but fear if Snape's eyes would burst if they bulged any more. For a moment he thought his potions master might scream or strike him, but just at the vital second he seemed to regain control. Clasping his long ugly nose with two fingers, Snape took deep breaths until he could respond in a normal tone.

"Headmaster, the Prewett girls are out of control," he said, his voice drawn and weary. "Yesterday they tossed a firework into a cauldron of shrinking solution. Tansy Prout spent fifteen minutes with a leg the size of a match. I beg you Headmaster, something must be done."

Dumbledore felt the smile on his face become abruptly real. Felicia and Gloria Prewett were two of his favourite students. The pair of fourth years could have been twins, they were so similar in appearance, but were in fact cousins. They were delightfully troublesome, even more so than their cousins Fred and George Weasley, who the Prewetts had been trying had to out do ever since they'd left Hogwarts the year before.

The two of them, along with their close friend Jeb Fenwick, were reminders of why Dumbledore had wanted to teach at all. They were young and full of life, brave, witty, kind and startlingly bright. They, along with every student in his school, justified Dumbledore's decision, all those years ago, to fight and to kill.

Indeed this year, for the first year since Grindlewald's rise to power, the class sizes were larger than the ones that Dumbledore himself had attended almost a hundred years ago. It was a testament to the wizarding world's endurance that they had bounced back so quickly in such a short time of sustained peace.

Snape coughed, clearly demanding and answer and the headmaster looked up and smiled at him.

"Don't worry Severus, I shall endeavour to get to the root of the matter," he said.

"You will expel them then?" asked Snape, adopting an expression so smug that Dumbledore had to resist the urge to curse him.

"No Severus," said Dumbledore quietly. "I shall not expel them."

"But Headmaster," said Snape, his expression abruptly furious. "They endanger everyone around them!"

"Miss Prout, was she alright in the end?" asked Dumbledore, his blue eyes twinkling. "Of course I dare say that as Headmaster I believe I would have been informed of a death or permanent injury, but one can never be too sure of these things."

"That is hardly the point," replied Snape, looking livid. "Next time-"

"Ah," said Dumbledore loudly, cutting him off. "And now we come to the route of the matter. You see Severus, while I will speak to the students in question, I don't think that the fault lies with them."

"Headmaster-" tried Snape again, his eyes wide with surprise, but Dumbledore interjected once more.

"I am not finished speaking Severus," he said in such a cold tone that the Professor's jaw clamped involuntarily closed and his skin returned to its normal pale pallor. "I find it very interesting that while you come to me with regular complaints about the behaviour of my students, I hear relatively few from your peers.

"Furthermore," he continued, stressing the word as Snape tried to speak over him once more. "I am not blind or senile yet Severus, I am not oblivious of the practices you keep in your classroom and a reprimand is well overdue. You will control yourself in future, Severus, or you will find yourself a new occupation."

For a moment Snape appeared lost for words, his mouth moving silently as he sought for words. Albus sat back in his chair and regarded his professor calmly, watching as the expected surge of anger rose up through him until his eyes flashed with defiance.

"Are you threatening me?" hissed Snape.

Dumbledore's laugh was soft and terrible, like the shattering of glass.

"My dear Severus," he said, darkening the room and allowing the slightest amount of magic to carry the significance of his words. "I don't make threats, I make promises."

Snape stared at him and paled once more, seeming to shrink before him. Dumbledore knew that the dramatics, while juvenile, would be more than likely effective. And, if he was honest, more than a little satisfying.

"Now," said Dumbledore, resuming his usual cheerful composure and allowing the room to brighten once more. "I hope I have your full understanding and compliance in this matter. I wish to see you resume your lessons on Monday morning with a much improved disposition and I'd like this to be the last of your little tantrums. Goodbye Severus."

The Potions Master left the room without another word and on shaky legs. Dumbledore watched him go with a little smile on his face. Hopefully this would restore the balance for at least a few months, giving his students a well-deserved respite from the Professor's vile temper.

Indeed he hoped the young man would take heed of his warning, he had a fantastic mind after all and it would be a dear shame to lose such an able potioneer. Not only for Dumbledore who would lose a member of staff, or the students who would lose valuable hours of instruction, but for Severus himself, who would have a hard time finding a similarly paid position.

Slightly tired by the ordeal and reminded of his age, the Headmaster of Hogwarts drained the last of the cup of tea before him and slumped back in his chair.

His pale blue eyes sought the hands of the clock in the corner of his office and watched them sweep lazily around the handsome walnut face. It was a common pursuit of his these days; to watch time slip by. It seemed, to the eyes of this old man at least, the constant reminder of the looming prospect of death.

Long gone were the days of his youth; his days of glory. Gone was the time when everything was possible and his mind teemed with ideas and each day was accompanied by a new wondrous discovery.

Albus Dumbledore had for almost three quarters of a century been at the cutting edge of discovery. While others had eked out their lives around him, this office had been the forefront of magical evolution.

Long gone were those days of sorcery, of alchemy and of wizardry. Magic still existed, of course, but not in the way that Dumbledore remembered it. Progress was no longer the lone wizard working long into the night, the joy of individual pursuit. Progress was now a science; clinical, refined and shackled to the laboratory.

Bitterness was not something that came naturally to Dumbledore, but the venerable wizard had not expected his life to close on this note. To end his days as the respected and adored, but ultimately bored Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Somehow, somewhere along the line, he had stopped being the defeater of Grindelwald, the hero of a generation and had become an old man. Tolerated, but largely ignored.

As much as he was loathe to admit it, Dumbledore had long come to the conclusion that he had not been born a man of peace.

His soul still yearned for glory.

With a creak, that he assured himself came merely from his chair, he rose and rounded his desk. With long weathered fingers he removed his wand from where it was tucked into his belt. With barely a thought he returned the glowing embers in the hearth to full strength.

With strides hampered slightly by age, he crossed the room to a small wicker table and lifted a teapot that sat upon it. The contents within were still warm enough to leave a pleasant sensation within his long, weathered fingers as he poured himself a fresh cup.

Without warning, his office exploded in a burst of flames. Parchment was swept from his desk and instruments blown across the room. It took a moment for the flames to die down, for the smoke to clear and for the Headmaster of Hogwarts to lower his eyebrows.

In the midst of the carnage stood a bedraggled young man. His lank dark hair spilled from his bowed head and hid his face from view, the pyjamas he wore barely reached his ankles and his legs trembled with the effort of keeping himself upright.

Regardless of the young man's sudden appearance in his office, Dumbledore was not in the slightest concerned for his own well being. Indeed, even if the young man were not clutching the tail feathers of Fawkes, who's intuition could generally be trusted on such things, a less menacing sight could not be imagined.

Indeed, if anything, Dumbledore felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Inexplicable happenings were such a rare occurrence in his life these days that he decided such things ought to be savoured.

He watched, with no small amount of amusement, as the young man in question gave Fawkes a little affectionate pet and returned him to the bird's perch. With this last exertion of energy, exhaustion seemed to overcome his young visitor and he staggered over to an armchair in a secluded corner of the room.

Dumbledore replaced the teapot on the table and quietly look a step closer to the young man who seemed to have not even noticed his presence. Before he could announce his presence however, he noticed the half dozen sherbet lemons in the boy's hand.

"Do make yourself at home," he said, allowing his amusement to seep into tone.

The young man did not jump or react in the way any normal intruder might. Though, Dumbledore had hardly expected him to. Instead he looked slowly round at the sound of the Headmaster's voice and after a second, Dumbledore saw a deep resignation appear in the bright green eyes.

The Headmaster's brain was not yet so far gone as not to instantly recognise those eyes.

"Good evening, Mr. Potter," he said.

"Now's not the time for your jokes, Albus," replied Harry. Weariness seeming to overtake him in the midst of his sentence, for his eyes lulled closed and his head fell backward into the chair.

"Jokes?" chortled Dumbledore, his eyes narrowing slightly. "These are manners."

The boy did not respond, instead seemed to doze in place, though Dumbledore knew he was not truly asleep. For a long time, nothing was said and the Headmaster racked his brain for everything he knew about the boy.

He was, if Dumbledore's memory served him correctly, a squib, which was why he'd never had the pleasure of meeting him before. In fact, if her were not mistaken, the last he'd heard on the subject from the boy's father, Harry Potter was supposed working in a muggle shop, living an ordinary life. Indeed none of the things Dumbledore could attest to knowing about the boy really explained the boy's sudden appearance or his familiarity with Fawkes.

"I'm sorry," said Harry sleepily from his seat, where he looked exceedingly at home. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"Ah," replied Dumbledore, his smile returning. "It is interesting how often rudeness is unintentional."

Harry once again didn't respond, merely dozing in place, his entire body trembling slightly as though he'd been through some great ordeal. Dumbledore half hoped he had, if only for a little distraction. As the minutes ticked by, Dumbledore considered the best way to broach the subject with the boy, eventually deciding that perhaps the best route was the most direct one.

"Is something wrong, Harry?"

"Everything that ever existed, exists or will exist is wrong, Albus," he replied, though didn't seem particularly worried by such a terrible forecast.

Dumbledore pondered his words. Under usual circumstances were such a situation to arise, though it never had, Dumbledore would have put this statement down to teenage angst or perhaps melodrama. However, something about the boy before him made Dumbledore think that he was being quite serious.

"I'm afraid I don't quite follow," said Dumbledore eventually, moving closer to the boy and sitting on a chair in relative proximity.

"What does the word 'squirrdlejuppe' mean to you?" asked Harry without even opening his eyes.

"Excuse me?" asked Dumbledore, his brow knotting into a frown. It was certainly not a word that he was familiar with.

"The boundless void," said Harry, his voice sounding far away. "The darkness that lasts forever."

"I still don't follow you, Harry," said Dumbledore, feeling all the more baffled by the minute.

"I'm sorry," replied Harry, leaning back in his chair. "I'd rather hoped you might be in bed."

Dumbledore wasn't exactly sure how to respond to this and stared at the boy for several seconds.

"Why?" he said eventually, opting for simplicity.

"Well," said Harry, drawing the syllable out for a long time. "Because I was planning on borrowing a few items and honestly, if you were asleep then I wouldn't have had to do this."

Dumbledore understood the boy's intentions a split-second before they became reality and instantly reached for his wand. Harry, however, was quicker and twisted Dumbledore's hand away, seizing the Elder wand himself. Nimbly he sprung away from the Headmaster's grasp and spun back on himself to level the wand in Dumbledore's face. The Headmaster didn't even have a chance to react before the bright white light enveloped him.

**:tsd:**

Squirrdlejuppe. Skwerlyup. Skweeerulyup.

The Headmaster's pale blue eyes watched the hands of the clock in the corner of his office sweep lazily around the handsome walnut face. It was a common pursuit of his these days; to watch time slip by. It seemed, to the eyes-

Dumbledore faltered momentarily.

His eyes drifted from the clock to his office, where his little mechanisms whirred quietly, where Fawkes sat on his perch, snoozing. Although everything seemed just as chaotic as usual the room still managed to feel different, as though someone had come and surreptitiously moved something.

Not to mention the strange word that seemed to sit on the edge of his tongue.

"Skweeerulyup," he said experimentally, then frowned.

Squirrdlejuppe? How odd. Dumbledore was almost certain that it wasn't a word at all. And, not to blow his own trumpet, but he did know more than his own fair share of languages.

Odd indeed.

Dumbledore rose from his chair, forcing the word out of his mind momentarily and turned toward the fire. For a moment he stared at it in shock as it burned merrily in the grate. He could have sworn-

Dumbledore shook his head clear of confusion.

"An absent slip of the mind," he whispered aloud, though not quite managing to convince himself.

He turned toward the small table on the other side of his office, took one step toward it and then stopped dead in his tracks.

He looked down at his desk.

Sitting there, in his chipped china cup, was a fresh cup of piping hot tea. Dumbledore returned to his seat and sat down heavily. He stared at the cup for a long time, then sighed.

"I'm not getting old. I'm not getting old," he whispered, as though it were a mantra. "I'm not getting old."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Apparently the game has a name I was unaware of: 'Short Chapters, Long Turnaround'. My apologies, I only wish I had a half decent excuse. As usual, DLP C2 (link in my profile) has pretty much most of the best Harry Potter fanfiction has to offer (if you ignore my own stuff, obviously). Subscribe if you would, we're trying to reach #1 and we're about a hundred people off. Thanks and enjoy!**

* * *

**The Sun Dog  
Act 1, Scene 3**

Sweat ran into the small of her back, the beaded drops tickling her as they disturbed the tiny invisible hairs that clung to her damp skin. As another wave of pleasure overtook her she leaned back, curving her entire spine as though trying to fold in half. The soft candlelight caught the brushed ceiling, the flickering illumination of the swirls a strangely erotic sight.

Sex had long been, even since her days at Hogwarts, something simultaneously excruciatingly exquisite and gratifyingly mundane. Not once had she ever been embarrassed by the way her body reacted to the gentle caresses of her lover, never had she been brow beaten or scolded into feeling ashamed of the way her body made her feel. When she was younger she had often wondered why only she could see how natural, how simple, how perfect such an act was. How fun.

Though, she thought as she looked down at the brutally obscene face below her, twisted as though in the throws of agony, it was only ever as fun as your partner was. Experience or ability were not important to her, those things could be learnt, but the respect and selflessness she usually required wouldn't ever be reciprocated by him.

As though he could read her mind, one of his rough hands found the curve of her breast and the other, circled around her waist and tugged her forward. For a second she lay over him, her hair cascading down around their faces, their noses almost touching. Lips almost touching, sharing their hot breath. With anyone else, this would have been an intimate gesture, but she knew perfectly well it was about control.

He smiled, a twisted expression that lit up his eyes in a grotesque way, and she almost shuddered in revulsion, hiding it in a moan. Almost by instinct she hinged herself backward again. She had to fight against his hand, but eventually she was upright again, trying to put as much distance between her and those lecherous eyes as she possibly could, given the circumstances.

His motions instantly changed, his thrusts became more physical, his hands knew it was his way punishing her for not bending to his desire and for the next minute or so, there was no pleasure to be had in it for her, just pain, humiliation and gritted teeth.

The moment he'd finished, she climbed off him, wrapping the sheets around her body and almost gagging as she felt warmth slide down her leg. Despite herself, she was pleased with the way he openly admired her body and the noticeable distress when she covered it. She was not too proud to admit that she loved the way all men admired her.

"You bored of me already?" he asked, his voice low and dark. She could detect the familiar hints of humour in his voice that were always rose to the surface when he'd caused her pain. It was pure sadism, not wholly unpleasant, but unnerving and distasteful nonetheless.

"I'm tired," she said, turning to lift her clothes from the floor and then stumbling in the direction of the bathroom. "And sore."

"Don't pretend you don't love it," he said as she closed the heavy door on him.

She stepped into the cool light of the blue flames that illuminated the bathroom and examined herself in the mirror. The soft brown eyes that stared back at her were as gentle and unassuming as they always were. She wiped the makeup from around her eyes where tears of pain had left it streaked and sighed as she leaned against the ceramic rim of the sink.

The skin around the corners of her mouth had begun to change colour slightly and she gently edged them back to their correct tint. Sex was always the hardest thing to maintain disguises through, most of the time she was experienced and practised enough to maintain them without allowing the constant effort to interfere in her normal day to day operation. Sex though stole her thoughts, broke her concentration and though she could usually maintain it regardless, the finer points would begin to slip away.

She sighed once more, more out of pain than anything and turned to the tub in the corner, turning on all three taps as far as they would open, watching with impatience as streams of scalding hot water and lavender perfume cascaded into the depths below. In almost no time at all she found herself shutting off the taps, letting the sheet fall to the tiled floor and carefully lifting her foot over the rim and holding it so that her toe was delicately poised over the surface of the water.

Slowly she allowed her toes, then her foot, then her ankle to sink into the water. It was blindingly hot, not enough to actually burn her, but hot enough that it was barely tolerable. After a moment, the intense heat began to subside and she let her weight fall to the bottom of the tub and supplely lifted her other foot into the tub. In this manner, by degree, she let herself slide into the water, until she was ensconced up to her neck.

It was a strange ritual, perhaps, to push her body to such extremes. But once submerged, she was as peaceful, relaxed and happy as she'd ever felt. Just laying here she felt the grime of the day, physical and metaphorical, wash away. She knew when she finally emerged from the bath, she would feel refreshed, spotless, reborn. She hadn't ever put much store in religion, but perhaps this was what it was to be baptised, to emerge from water abluted.

After allowing the water to settle and chill a little, she set about the task of carefully washing herself, inside and out. As much as she genuinely loved sex itself, the man whose bed she was sharing always left her feeling soiled. She knew she was nothing but a glorified sex toy to him, something to be used and discarded at a whim. It was disgusting, degrading and yet, try as she might to deny it, as much as it stung her sense of self worth to admit it, strangely erotic.

Even so, he would not have been a partner she would have selected for any reason other than the ulterior motives she harboured. As an investigative reporter, one of the primary weapons in her arsenal was her body. Being unashamed, indeed grateful, to use her sexuality to achieve things otherwise unattainable was something that had proved a very successful tactic during her years writing for the Prophet.

Sex and journalism were her primary passions and that they so often went hand in hand only increased the allure of each. In her mind, there was a strange symbolic parallelism between the two. Both began with flirtatious advances, the measuring up of your opponent, the carefully postulated hypotheses, then both elapsed into the stripping away of preconceptions to reveal the bare naked truth, both peaked with an incredible moment of clarity, pleasure and incredible insight.

Yet both of her two pursuits only ever led to the other. Seeking the truth led to little other than sex and in turn, sex led to little other than the cold hard truth. And in both regards she was insatiable; she could never have enough sex and she could never have enough truth. It was an unstoppable cycle that left her personal life in limbo while she voraciously fed her addictions.

By the time she left the bathroom, re-attired and her hair immaculately neat, her partner too was in the process of dressing. The heavy lidded eyes rose from the laces of his boots and watched her as she crossed the room. She found herself smiling as he noticed the slink in her step, the low cut shirt, the seductive expression on her face. She revelled in the way he ate her with his eyes.

"Thanks for a wonderful afternoon," she said in a bitter voice that rose easily to her lips. "I'm glad you enjoyed it at least."

He rose, still shirtless and she couldn't help but notice how the spider-web tattoo on his thick bicep rippled as he reached out and wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her close. His breath, sullied by the hours of drinking, eating and smoking was hot and putrid against her face. She pushed against his chest with her hands, but his other arm closed around her, holding her in an impenetrable grip.

"You're a sick bitch, Rianne," he said, his mouth twisting into an ugly smile as he spoke. "Nothing keeps you coming back here, except you. You get off on it, you get off on me."

"Let go of me," she hissed, trying to tear herself from his grasp.

He held her a moment longer, probably just to prove that it was at his convenience and not hers. The foul smile on his lips grew even wider as she took a step backward, her hand falling to her jean pocket, where he knew full well she kept her wand. Their eyes met for a moment and she shuddered at what she found there. Then he stood aside, leaving her path clear to the door.

"I'll see you later this week," he said softly, a voice so calm and reassuring that it almost hid the terrible creature that lurked below the surface. "There's the ball on Thursday, remember?"

She nodded mutely as she passed him. His invitation to the ball was all that had interested her in the first place, the only reason she'd slept with him at all. The chance to be close to the elite of the wizarding world; the fore-thinkers, politicians, officials. Not least of all Riddle, the focus of her current article, one of a few straight men who had managed to resist her advances.

She crossed the room and opened the door, the hinges screeching in violent protest at her urgency to flee the room. She was almost through and to safety when he spoke again.

"Wait," he snapped and she stopped in the doorway. Slowly she turned to face him. "Something's been bothering me."

She froze, her stomach feeling as though someone had wrenched it from her abdomen with their bare hands and tossed it into a bucket of icy water. Could he have figured out that there was something wrong with her story, a detail she'd overlooked? Was there a fault with her disguise, she'd been careful but it wasn't always possible to maintain the change perfectly and indefinitely. Maybe he had always known and had been merely toying with her. She could almost feel the blood run from her face and it took all of her concentration to force it back into her cheeks. She schooled her expression into one of polite curiosity and turned on her heel to face him, all the while measuring up possible escape routes and her odds of winning a fight.

He took two steps to be stood in front of her and gently lifted a hand to capture a stray strand of red hair and push it out of her face, a strangely affectionate gesture from the brutal man. She momentarily felt her disgust for him soften slightly.

"Who was it?" he asked. "I've been asking myself that all those times we've been together. Who was it?"

She gave him a blank look of confusion.

"Who was it that fucked you up so badly?" he asked and a disgusting smile crept on to his lips. "I bet it was Daddy, wasn't it. I bet Daddy used to creep into your bedroom at night and bend little Rianne over and slip himself—"

The room echoed with the slap she gave him and for a long time they stood there facing each other. For a moment, she thought he might hit her back but then he laughed and pushed her out into the hall.

"Hit a nerve, didn't I?" he asked and slammed the door in her face.

She stood and stared at the warped wood two inches away from her nose, feeling the heat on her cheeks and the sting of her eyes. Slowly she felt the anger that was coiled so tightly inside her slowly dissipate into a bitter unhappiness and then shame, that she'd let such a pathetic creature cut her so deeply. She took a long steadying breath and then turned on her heel, following the corridor and flight of stairs down into the bar of the Leaky Cauldron.

The usual sights of mid-day drinkers and the inhabitants of Diagon Alley on their lunch breaks met her and the normality of it soothed her ruffled feathers. The repetitive thuds of glass against the mismatched furniture and the clink of cutlery against china was like music to her ears. Likewise the delicious aroma of the food being ferried from the kitchen to the waiting punters was heavenly and she felt her stomach stir slightly in response.

She steadied herself against the handrail as she descended the last few stairs, then sauntered across to the bar, exuding sexuality with every step. At least half the eyes in the place turned to watch her hoist herself onto a high stool. Tom's greeting grin was as grim as the grimy cocktail glass he pushed across the bar toward her. She returned the smile with her own winning beam, handed the man a handful of sickles and drank the dry martini in a single gulp.

The barman leaned across the counter.

"Rough was he?" he asked.

"Always is, Tom."

Thankfully, the grotesque man took her brevity as it was intended and, after passing her a small piece of parchment, left her alone, scuttling off to do whatever it was he did when he wasn't serving drinks. Looking up the waitresses' skirts, probably. She turned her own attention to the surrounding tables and smiled when she saw it was just as packed as ever. The grimy little pub was reassuringly familiar to her and apparently, half the wizards in Britain too. It had been standing almost as long as there was history to record it and it was a home away from home to all of Britain's wizarding world.

She'd been told once that a British witch or wizard knew three homes in their life; their parent's, Hogwarts and the bottom of one of Tom's glasses. It had always interested her just how keen an observation it proved to be. While the Three Broomsticks was the place you might go with your friends for a quiet drink or possibly take a potential lover for an intimate moment and the Hog's Head was where you went to rub elbows with scum, it was the Leaky Cauldron where you went to get shitfaced and fuck. It was where you went to be alone. Where you went when you wanted company. Where you went when you wanted a friendly ear and where you went when you wanted a hard fuck in a dirty bathroom.

All in all, she spent a lot of time in this pub.

She turned on the stool upon which she was perched and cast a weary eye around, taking in the notable patrons; beside the usual motley group of Diagon Alley workers and shoppers, two goblins sat in a corner speaking in whispers, what appeared to be a hag sat alone, almost bent double over a plate of something foul looking and, on the other side of the room, a small group of people crowded around two men sat at a table, an alarming number of glasses piled around them.

A slight ripple of amusement ran through her as she realised that Varic had baited another tourist into a drinking competition. It was something that happened once or twice a week and only ever ended one way. Varic was a ferocious drinker and many a foreign wizard, or kid just out of Hogwarts had fallen into his trap. Little did they know that it wouldn't just be the money they put down on the table that they lost, but anything valuable they happened to have on them at the time.

Yet, there were enough in the crowd to pique her interest. Whoever it was facing Varic, from her seat she couldn't make see him between the crowd, was certainly giving the elderly wizard a run for his money. Curiosity got the better of her and she slid down from her stool and moved in for a closer look. The floor around the pair was sticky, as though something had been spilt earlier in the contest and she carefully picked her way around it and the others watching. As she caught the face of the opponent, she felt her lips part slightly in astonishment; the boy opposite Varic couldn't have been more than fifteen. Although the lean features could have been much older the patchy stubble on his chin was a dead give away. But it was the green eyes that fixed her, even though he was looking into Varic's face; she felt she ought to recognise them, but couldn't place them for the life of her.

The boy lifted his drink again.

Rum soaked the collar of his shirt as he tipped the small glass back, the majority of the foul dark liquid running down the back of his throat. He spluttered, trying to prevent it from coming back up, but managed to finish the drink. Swaying precariously he slammed the vessel down on the table with a clatter. Two seconds later the crowd that had formed around them let up a cheer as the wizard sitting opposite him mimicked his action.

"Don't you— Don't you think you ought to give up?" slurred the boy, gazing across the table with bleary eyes. "That's eight and you're not— you're not looking too good."

Varic, a seedy craggy-faced wizard, glared at him with some difficulty, his lank beard soaked in rum and a trickle of the dark liquid dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

"I'm— I'm— I'm—" tried the wizard, but his eyes were unfocused and listless. "Ah, fek it. Gerr'under the table."

With a resigned nod, the boy struggled down from his stool with a great degree of difficulty, his arms and legs seeming to operate of their own accord. He swayed again, even on his hands and knees, and had to swallow desperately as if keep his stomach in check.

A moment later he was joined by Varic who collapsed to the ground with far less decorum than the boy had managed.

"Still hanging in there old—" He paused to retch. "—old timer?"

"Go fek yerself," replied the wizard, his eyes closed against the nausea that threatened to overwhelm the elderly wizard. "Up yer go."

Varic and his opponent both struggled to their feet, stumbling over their stools as they rose. She smiled, stepped forward and lifted the open bottle from the table. The boy was the first to sit again and watched with incredible disgust as she topped up another four glasses. He looked up at her when she finished and gave a rum-sodden grin.

"How many's that?" he asked, choking as he caught the smell of fresh rum.

"Seventeen," said someone from behind her.

She whistled softly.

"Seventeen?" she asked, with genuine admiration. "I'm impressed."

"Well that's alright then," said the boy, in a thick voice. "Don't mind if I lose now, provided I've managed to impress a pretty lass."

He gave her such an incredibly exaggerated wink that he almost tipped backward off his stool. Then he lifted his drink, turned back to his opponent, tilted the vessle in his direction and grinned.

"To your good health, sir," he said and tipped it back.

He brought his glass down with another crash and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The wizard sitting opposite him gave him an irritated glare and lifted his own drink, before throwing it and his head back. Varic took two long, audible gulps, before his entire body fell slack and he tipped backward off his stool.

The wizard fell to the ground with a crash, soaking everything in three feet with a generous measure of dark rum. The boy rose gently and peered over the table and down at his unconscious opponent. A general groan of disapproval and exaspiration circulated the surrounding spectators and a great deal of money seemed to exchange hands at a rapid rate.

This seemed to remind the boy of the entire point of this escapade and he turned to the sack propped on the table.

He picked up the bag of galleons from the table, weighing it gently in his hand. Satisfied, he removed a single gold coin from the bag and flicked it over the table and onto Varic's unconscious form, hit her with another exaggerated wink and stumbled away from the table.

He somehow managed to guide his feet over to the bar and propped himself up on the highly polished surface, every movement seeming to nauseate him as he retched several times on his path across the room. A moment later he caught Tom's eye and the barman came to his aide.

"A bezoar and a glass of water please Tom," he managed through drink addled lips.

Tom nodded without a word and disappeared off up the bar to oblige him. She went to sit next to him, her curiosity still guiding her; she couldn't shake the feeling that she ought to know him. Again she stared at the dark ruffled hair, strong chin, bright green eyes and tight, thin lips that on any other face would have been cruel, but suited him perfectly.

"That really was pretty impressive," she said and watched Harry's bezoar arrive with bemusement, which he swallowed without compunction. "Expensive sobering charm?"

"A better one," replied the boy, instantly feeling much more normal. "Worth every knut."

The fact that the pricey ingredient cut steeply into his winnings didn't seem to bother him at all, indeed he smiled softly to himself as he reached into his pocket and produced a wand that she instantly recognised as Varic's. He twirled it expertly through his fingers and then glanced up at her, meeting her curious expression with a wide smile.

"You look very pleased with yourself," she said. "The cat that got the cream. The boy that stole the wand, perhaps."

His expression immediately became blank and guarded, his eyes bored into her with a vicious intensity, then his face abruptly relaxed and cracked once more into a smile. He was unlike almost anyone of his age she'd ever met, he held himself with a confidence, charm and poise that had even shone through his intoxication. She felt sure, that he would be very popular with the ladies when he grew up a little, if he weren't already.

"I'm Harry," he said, after a long silence had passed between them.

"Rianne," she replied and offered him her hand.

He gave her a questioning look that made her feel uneasy, then took her hand for the slightest moment and nodded. For some reason she was almost certain that he knew she'd been lying, but at the moment he seemed happy enough to accept the answer. He turned again to Tom and ordered two Ginger Snap Martinis.

"Best drink he does," he supplied knowledgeably and she couldn't help but giggle at his knowing tone.

"Thank you," she said. "How much do I owe you?"

"Nothing," said Harry with a sly smile. "Getting the prettiest girl in here drunk is payment enough."

She snorted, genuinely amused by his impish charm.

"You think you're very smooth, don't you?"

"No, really, it's the truth," said Harry with mock sincerity. "You're one of two women in here and I'm pretty sure the other is a hag."

Her eyes followed his pointing finger to the warted crone in the corner, glanced around to see that the majority of the Diagon Alley patrons had left and then dissolved into laughter.

"Ah, so you're not a smooth talker," she said. "You're just mean."

"I prefer to think of myself as honest," replied Harry, accepting the drink that Tom passed to him and pushing one in the direction of her. She shook her head ruefully.

"Hardly if you're being served in here," she said. "How old are you? Seventeen?"

"Fifteen," replied Harry, without even a shadow of hesitation.

She laughed again, at least he was being honest with her, it probably meant he was only flirting with her and not attempting something untoward. Either way, his casual flirtation wasn't something that she'd happily ignore, a girl had to have standards after all.

"Shouldn't you be at Hogwarts, instead of in a pub chatting up women ten years old than you?" she asked.

He took a long sip of his cocktail and watched as she did the same. The dark liquid was hot against the soft flesh inside her mouth and she purred softly. Harry was completely right, the drink was absolutely delicious; as the immediate heat gave way a dozen subtle flavours came together to dance across her palate. It was more exquisite than almost anything else she'd ever drank. She tipped the glass in his direction in a sort of toast.

"So?" she asked.

"I'm a squib," replied Harry promptly. He looked up into her face, clearly noted her disbelief and smiled. "No really, I'm James Potter's son. One hundred percent home grown squibby."

She felt her eyes widen in surprise and stared into Harry's bright green eyes. She knew now why she'd faintly recognised them, they were the same as Lily Potter's; her cousin's best friend's wife. She hadn't ever met the boy and she only knew his parents in passing, but those eyes were striking enough to have stuck with her regardless. A questioned blossomed in her mind and slipped from between her lips before she could stop herself.

"So why did you steal his wand then?"

He winked, rose, held the stem of his martini glass between his finger and thumb and lifted it delicately to the light, then finished it with a single mouthful.

"Try as I might, I just can't reach this itch between my shoulder blades," he said and put two galleons down on the counter. "Oh, Merry Christmas, Tonks."

He left, leaving an astonished Tonks in his wake. She had never even met Harry Potter, yet he had seen through her disguise and known exactly who she was. Nobody, not even her mother could see through the disguises she adopted yet he'd apparently done so without the use of magic. Slowly her expression of surprise slipped into a tight lipped expression of determination. The Potters' squib son was clearly full of mysteries and she resolved then and there to find the truth.

It was, after all, what she did.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Again, my apologies for the long wait for this chapter. It's been sitting half complete all the way through my exams and holidays. I'm hoping this'll give me some motivation to get writing again. This chapter is different to those posted before, slower, less obviously plot-orientated but (I feel) essential to the direction I want to move the story. I hope the change won't put you guys off reviewing.  
**

** Also, a huge thanks to those of you that subscribed to the C2. As you may know it's been the pet project of mine and since hitting 2401 subscribers today, we became the largest (to my knowledge) C2 on FFNet, so thanks awfully. As usual, it's a fantastic C2 that boasts quality over quantity, do be sure to check it out if you haven't already.  
**

* * *

**The Sun Dog  
Act 1, Scene 4  
**

Snow brushed against the window, clinging to the sill and covering the ground outside in a thick blanket. Regardless, undaunted by the freezing conditions, the hardy Londoners bustled about their business, hauling their last minute Christmas shopping to and fro. Condensation crept up the panes of glass inside the café as the radiators inside creaked and groaned the temperature to a bearable level for those sensible enough to wait out the worst of the weather.

Petunia, thankful to be inside on such a horrid day, cupped the steaming mug between her hands, allowing heat to radiate through the china into her stone cold fingers. She watched curiously as the people swept past outside. She couldn't help but feel a little smug watching the panic of those caught up in the panic buying that always seemed to descend upon Britain in the last week before the big day. She had been wise enough to prepare herself in advance, indeed the last of her puzzle pieces, a twelve pound frozen turkey, had been delivered this morning, giving her a blissful week of relaxation before the stress of preparation once again overwhelmed her.

The perfect Christmas, she had long felt, was the ultimate pleasure. To have prepared for something so thoroughly and to see it blossom into fruition was so immensely satisfying that she felt a little rush of frisson bubble up her spine merely thinking about it. Every year of her marriage, from the age of twenty one until now, sixteen years later, she had created for herself the perfect Christmas that she'd never had with her own parents. They, like those bustling around outside, had always left things until the last minute and always came unstuck in the last few days as they rushed to pick up the slack. Yet, thought Petunia a little bitterly, they had never even seemed a trifle upset about it, instead choosing to laugh it off as though it were inconsequential.

Petunia disagreed vehemently.

Feeling very satisfied with herself, she bent her face low over the brim, allowing the steam to settle on her face and warm her nose. Hot, sweet tea was one of the few vices that Petunia allowed herself. It was something she used to resolve herself, to steel herself against the weariness that consumed her. Six sugars a cup, a cup an hour, thirteen hours a day, every day for sixteen years. It was something she earned day in and day out with the work she put toward caring for her Vernon.

"Alright love?" came a voice from over her shoulder. "Do you want another cuppa?"

Petunia turned to see Mrs. Aldersopp, the frail old lady who ran the greasy spoon. The ancient woman's wizened face was cracked in a smile that, though genuine, was painful to behold and Petunia could only just manage to suppress the shudder she felt well up inside her. Aldersopp pushed a teapot under Petunia's nose for the umpteenth time and shook it, liberally sprinkling the mint coloured Formica tabletop with the dark brown liquid within.

"I'm fine thank you," said Petunia, feeling very conscious of how her received pronunciation oozed from her voice.

This run down little café always managed to draw her middle-class upbringing out and make her feel uneasy. For some reason something about the squalor of the people here made her embarrassed to be relatively well off and in turn the embarrassment of it became a deep anger with herself. Why should she have to feel embarrassed for the fact that she'd achieved more with her life than they? Why should she feel embarrassed for being educated and polite and proper? And yet despite never felt the slightest bit of resentment from the other patrons who seemed to ignore her for the most part, or indeed Aldersopp herself, Petunia was perpetually and inexplicably embarrassed.

The café itself teetered on the brink of Petunia's strict sense of acceptability. It was situated in the heart of London and was a venerable palace of greasy fry ups and milky, tasteless teas. Petunia couldn't for the life of her understand why Harry always insisted they meet here, but for three years, it had been like this. Despite Aldersopp keeping the place perpetually spotless, the food being passable for what it was and the elderly woman's generosity with refills legendary, it was always brought down by the quality of the patrons. Yet for some unfathomable reason, Harry had always felt comfortable in this sleazy place in a way that Petunia herself never could. Somewhere between the rough cockney builders, the grimy tarts and ancient old women that inhabited the tables, Harry had found a home.

Petunia was distracted from her thoughts as the bell above the café door pealed and Harry slunk into the cafe. Petunia had to clamp her jaw closed to prevent a cry escaping her lips at the sight of him. His skin was pale and blotchy, while his face gaunt and his eyes were deeply recessed making him look far older than his fifteen years, but was at odds with his baggy, over-sized sweater which made him appear diminutive and far younger than he was. He glanced furtively around, before his glassy eyes fell upon Petunia and she thought she could see the slightest hint of intoxication in their depths.

He shuffled across the room and fell into the plastic seat opposite Petunia with a sigh of relief. No sooner had he pulled his damp sweater over his head, revealing an astonishingly emaciated stomach, than he was accosted by Mrs. Aldersopp, who swept in, placed a hot cup of coffee before him, tousled his hair fondly and disappeared without a word. Harry said nothing, but stirred his coffee with the plastic spoon provided and lifted it to his face with both hands.

Petunia felt her mouth draw into a thin line as she looked at him. Up close he looked even worse. He was dirty; his hair matted and unkempt, his skin greasy and streaked, and his fingernails discoloured. He emitted the slightest of wheezes as he took breath, each of which seemed to pain him slightly, if the tightening of his fingers around the handle of his mug was any indication.

"It's rude to stare," he muttered into his mug as he lifted the hot liquid to his mouth with relish.

"I wouldn't stare if you didn't look like you'd just come in off the street," said Petunia, icily.

"It's cold outside," replied Harry. "And wet."

"And you're killing yourself," she said. "You ought to—"

"Murder my nosey relatives?" asked Harry, cutting her off mid sentence. "I'm fine. I've just been working too hard."

"You look like a drug addict," said Petunia, then paused and looked up at him again.

The thought had never occurred to her before, but it was entirely plausible of course. Could that be it?

"I'm not on drugs," snapped Harry as though he'd read her mind, his eyes flashing angrily.

"I didn't suggest that you were," said Petunia, her words as delicate and sharp as broken glass. "Merely suggested that you looked as though you were."

"Did you come here just to insult me?" he asked bitterly.

She stared at him, pursed her lips and frowned. Honestly, she wasn't sure why she came any more. For a while they'd met because she thought that they shared something, as aunt and nephew. Because she felt like he was the chance she'd never gotten to have a real family. That he could fill the uncomfortable void she had always felt. These last few weeks though, their relationship had been strained. He was frosty with her and she found herself getting more frustrated with him than ever before. Whatever relationship they'd once had was slowly slipping away from her and she wasn't sure that she really wanted to save it.

Even worse, she wasn't sure she even could.

"You asked me to come," she said finally.

"Well don't bother if its not doing anything for you," he snapped and sprang to his feet.

It was such an explosive and unexpected movement that Petunia almost spilled her tea in surprise. It took her a second to recover her poise, by which time he was two steps to the door. A myriad of curious faces had turned in their direction and Petunia felt her face flush hot in embarrassment.

"Harry," she said, stopping him in his tracks. "Sit down. I want to be here."

He turned back to stare at her and she watched the rage ebb from his eyes almost as quickly as it had come. For the first time, in a long time, she saw the strong resemblance between Harry and her sister.

He sat and for several minutes they looked everywhere but at each other.

"Could you live without Vernon?" asked Harry abruptly, bringing Petunia's attention swiftly back to her nephew.

"What a strange question," replied Petunia. "Should I take this as a warning that you plan to kill my husband?"

"No," said Harry, with the slightest expression of irritation. "I'm being serious."

Petunia gazed into her tea. The question had been so brutal, so deeply personal, that she had instinctively made a joke of it, hoping to dissuade the line of inquiry. But he was serious and answering the question would be imperative if she wanted to get anything else out of him today.

"I suppose I shall have to, one day," she said eventually. "Especially if he continues to eat as he does."

The truth concealed within another joke. She knew he would pick it apart in his head and understand it as though she'd responded openly. But it was far too morbid to openly declare that she had long ago come to such a grim conclusion. That she'd known for most of her married life that one day, she would be alone.

Harry seemed to process this, staring down at his own drink. Again, Petunia couldn't help but once again draw the comparison to Lily; something of the shape in his brow, the way he gripped his lower lip between his teeth as he thought. Considering the emotional gulf between mother and son, he was more like her than he could possibly know.

"And what if you couldn't?" he asked. "Live without him, I mean."

"I won't deal in hypotheticals," said Petunia firmly.

"Well is there anyone you need so much that if they died, you couldn't go on?"

"No," said Petunia instantly. "There's nobody like that in my life."

She felt her eyes glide away from Harry's. In three years she'd never known the boy to be this intense, so temperamental, angry and bitter. She knew he was looking for something from her, but she wasn't sure what it was, or if she could even give it to him.

"I've always felt," she continued, still not meeting his eyes. "That if you can only define yourself by your relationships with others, you are a weak person indeed."

What ever response she'd been expecting; anger, dramatics, another scathing comment, she didn't get it. Instead he just laughed and some how it was even worse than if he'd lost his temper. The laugh was hollow, passionless and bitter; the laugh of someone world weary—a laugh that was disgusting and troubling to hear escape the lips of someone so young.

"I guess I am," he replied. "Always was."

And there was the subject they'd been dancing around for the entire conversation, thought Petunia, her eyes roaming over the dejected face of her nephew. He'd clearly met someone and been turned down, or suffered some variation therein. It occurred to her that she'd never known Harry to show any interest in girls before, if indeed it was a girl he was interested in and she had no real idea of how to deal with such a predicament. Clearly he was distraught to some degree, if his fluctuating mood was any suggestion, but Petunia had no idea how to make him feel better or how to approach the subject. Not for the first time she felt a little stab of annoyance toward her sister and her husband for failing their son so badly.

"I disagree," replied Petunia curtly and leaned across the table to take his hand in hers. "The Harry Potter I know is strong, resilient, intelligent and resourceful. He's the boy who never gave up on a world that shunned him, who left home too young to work so he could avoid being pitied, who looked kindly on an aunt who was cold and rude because he could immediately empathize with her."

Harry looked up at her and smiled. For the first time Petunia spotted something visible beneath the surface, some resemblance to the boy she'd known and grown to love. His fingers squeezed around her hand tightly, then relaxed and he leaned back in his seat.

"I wish I'd met this Harry Potter," he said softly, with a ringing sound in his voice that was almost like laughter. He caught her eye and she could see the gratitude in them. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," said Petunia primly, removing her hands from the table and folding them neatly in her lap. "Now, we— by that I mean Vernon and I— are throwing a party the night before Christmas Eve, we'd love to—"

Petunia knew he was going to interrupt her before he'd even opened his mouth, a familiar luster had returned to his eyes and when he spoke it was with a toothy grin.

"Unless the next words out of your mouth are 'Put you in the ground' I'm pretty sure Vernon disagrees," he said.

Petunia couldn't help but laugh. It was an alien sensation in her vocal chords, like a muscle that had atrophied out of long disuse. The sound was unpleasant to her ears; nasal and grating, but Harry beamed, apparently pleased with the result.

"Vernon— Vernon is not here," she said, her voice growing steadily more firm as she spoke. "It is not his decision which of my friends can attend and which cannot."

He gazed at her for a minute, the mirth in his eyes slowly dripping away to a strange sincerity. He tried to smile and failed, then glanced away. Petunia wasn't sure what had prompted such a rapid change of mood, but then his temperament had been uneven for their entire conversation and experience had taught her that keeping tabs on his emotions was difficult on a good day.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia, I appreciate it, I really do. I've made plans for that evening though."

Whatever it was that Petunia had expected him to say, it was not this. Harry Potter was not the sort of person to lie, even in order to spare someone's feelings, which meant he really did have other commitments. The polite thing, of course, would be to nod and accept his excuse, but despite herself, a sudden surge of curiosity overcame her.

"Oh? What sort of plans?" she asked with an interest that clearly wasn't missed by Harry.

"I'm going to the Ministry Ball with my parents," he replied steadily.

This, more than anything else in this strange, cryptic conversation, gave Petunia cause for surprise. Not once in all the years she'd known him, had he ever expressed any interest in the grand functions of the wizarding world's government. From what little she'd garnered from conversations with him the annual event had sounded dull, pompous and formal. It ought to have been, and until today, had been, the sort of thing that Harry had detested.

"Really? What ever for?" she asked before she could really stop herself.

"To rub elbows with the greatest witches and wizards of our age, I suppose," he replied with a sardonic smile.

"Who are you and what have you done with my nephew?" she asked, with an incredulous tone of voice. For a moment she imagined she saw something like panic in his eyes, but then he relaxed and grinned. "Your parents have invited you to attend every year and you have refused, now you suddenly decide to attend. What's changed?"

"They stopped inviting me, so I invited myself," he replied with a shrug.

"Ah, so you are cutting your nose to spite your face?" asked Petunia.

"No, I'm genuinely interested," he said, then his face broke into a wide grin. "Perhaps it is a sign I am maturing."

Petunia couldn't stop herself from laughing again and winced at the grating sound. Harry adopted an expression of mock offence, before he too began laughing. Petunia's heart soared at the sound, it was something she seldom heard these days.

"I thoroughly doubt you'll ever mature," she said, with a wide smile that felt out of place on her face.

"Perhaps not," replied Harry, his grin still yet to fade from his face. "But I've at least got to make an attempt at some point."

Petunia didn't quite know what to say next and neither, it seemed, did Harry. As such, the moment died and a quiet, sombre mood fell over the table again.

Eventually Harry straightened, opened his mouth as if he were going to say something and then his eyes were drawn to something over Petunia's shoulder. She craned round in her seat to look at the clock behind her. It read a quarter to three.

By the time she'd looked around again, Harry was on his feet and leaning over the table. To her astonishment, he seized her in a fierce one-armed hug and planted the slightest of kisses against her cheek; something he'd never done before.

"I'm sorry Petunia," he said, and he looked it. "But I've got an appointment I have to keep. Forgive me."

And with that he was gone, leaving Petunia gobsmacked in his wake.

She wasn't alone long, however, for Mrs. Aldersopp was once again waving the teapot in front of her face.

"Alright love?" she asked. "Do you want another cuppa?"

Petunia turned the warmest smile she'd ever managed upon her.

"Yes please," she said and reached for the sugar as she watched the dark brown liquid gush into the cheap white mug before her.

"You know I've never once seen that boy happy," remarked Aldersopp as she wiped dark spots of tea from the table.

"I'm sorry?" asked Petunia, rather taken aback.

Mrs. Aldersopp seemed not to notice.

"Oh he's polite and he smiles and he laughs, but you can see it in his eyes, you know," she continued. "He's unhappy."

"He's… He's got a rare genetic condition," explained Petunia as best she could, while not entirely sure that Harry would want her to be discussing it.

"And it pains him, does it?" asked Aldersopp and Petunia wagered she could see genuine concern in her features, not just idle curiosity.

"I suppose it must do," she replied.

"You know, I've seen a lot of you since he started coming here, but never his parents, are they not close?"

Petunia considered this a moment.

"Not very, no. His choice, not theirs," she said, thoughtfully. "He doesn't like to upset them."

Aldersopp's expression creased into a deep frown of confusion.

"Upset them?" she asked, sounding slightly haughty. "He's a grand young lad, any parent would be proud to have him."

"Oh no," said Petunia quickly. "His parents know that, it's just—"

She didn't really know how to finish the sentence, she wasn't even sure she wanted to. However, Mrs. Aldersopp was insistent.

"Just what?" she asked, eyes keen.

"He's miserable," said Petunia, at last, the tiniest of catches in her voice. "He's miserable and there's nothing harder to watch than that."

It was only when Mrs. Aldersopp placed a hand on her shoulder that she realized she was crying.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Yes! Five updates in a year. Gosh, I'm such a dedicated writer. All I can do is apologise to the few of you who enjoy reading this. I wish I had an excuse, but I don't, I've just had other priorities. Anyone still interested in FoV should know that I've got a huge update I plan to upload some point this week. Hopefully. **

**The Sun Dog  
Act 1, Scene 5**

The bow screeched out a note of trembling, exquisite agony against the strings. For a moment it hung in the air, unimpeded in the silence that followed, before the rest of the quartet swung abruptly into a fast-flowing tango that spun through the room. The prodigious skill of the players bleeding into every pull and twist of their hands.

It was a pity, thought Tonks as she listened, that the rest of the room found it so easy to ignore the music that gently tugged at her heartstrings. A low murmur of many voices punctuated the tune and aside from the handful of children that giggled and chased each other around the room, the dance floor stood vacant.

The rest of the room, overlooked on three sides by a balcony held aloft by slender, fluted columns, was buzzing with activity. The beautifully polished hardwood floor, luscious red wallpaper and enormous brass chandelier hanging from the ceiling each contributing equally to the opulent surroundings.

The only wall of the room that did not possess a balcony was broken by three enormous panes of glass that ran from the floor to the molded and frescoed ceiling thirty feet above. Outside the window Tonks could just see the tops of the trees in the Ministry garden below, each branch illuminated with a faint blue glow that emanated from the thousands of faeries enchanted to dance upon them.

It was breathtakingly beautiful, but ludicrously expensive.

Reluctantly she turned away from the windows and glanced around the ballroom with disgust. To one side of the room the politicians crowded together, their quiet murmurings and political wheedling providing a low, ominous undertone to the room, like the sound of far-off thunder.

This was the sort of party where all the rich and influential came together in conversation to exchange gold, advice and thinly concealed threats. It was the perfect hunting ground for Tonks, whose livelihood relied on her ability to overhear such conversations but she couldn't help but feel repulsed by the attendees it drew.

It was obscene, she thought as she moved with the utmost grace, how much gold the Ministry had spent on this single, ultimately pointless function, while the war still raged in Asia. She wound herself expertly between tall fluted columns that reached up to the balconies above and round-stomached politicians in their immaculate dress robes. Her eyes desperately raking the room for the one man she sought.

She had long ago abandoned her date, her dress had proven far too enticing for his wandering hands. So she'd quickly excused herself and headed to the bathroom, where she'd changed her face and clothes. She'd spotted him twice in the hour since, a scowl on his face and purpose in his step as he stalked around the room.

In the end, it wasn't him that she eventually spotted mingling amongst the crowd, neither was it the face of the man she pursued. Rather, the eyes that caught her gaze were of a vivid green that bored into hers, as though raking her soul.

Then, from across the ballroom, Harry Potter winked at her.

She made her way over fluidly, her easy footsteps taking her around a collection of Slughorn's politely twittering admirers and to the small pale bar that Harry was leaning against, a glass of amber liquid perched in his fingers.

"A glass of champagne please," she said to the barman, then looked to the dark-haired boy beside her. "Mister Potter."

"Miss Tonks," replied, without taking his eyes off the room. Tonks could smell the alcohol fumes that poured from his mouth in waves.

"The last time I saw you, you were drunk," she said, a mischievous grin spreading on to her face. "I fear from the smell of your breath you may be making a habit of it."

"And the last time I saw you, you were barely walking straight," he replied, a similar smile creeping onto his lips. "I do hope that isn't the case tonight."

"Oh, you never know," she replied with a gentle laugh. "You might get lucky yet."

"I'd need to be the luckiest man alive," he replied. "Especially with you in that dress."

"I'm of the opinion that we make our own luck" she said, her smile becoming wide and genuine.

"So am I," said Harry, finally looking at her, returning the smile and treating her to a saucy wink.

She couldn't help but laugh.

"So which of the saints in this ballroom has brought you here tonight?" asked Harry. "And whose dirty laundry are you hoping to air?"

"Oh I come and go as I wish," replied Tonks, exuding fake nonchalance. "The Minister likes having me around on such occasions. Just in case."

"Just in case there's some scintillating gossip that you can smear across the front page?"

She snorted and looked away from his wickedly grinning face and once again allowing her eyes to drift across the room. When she realized there was still no sign of the man she so desperately sought, she directed her attention back to Harry Potter, who was also in the process of examining the room.

He was handsome, there was no doubt about that, but in a wild, uninterested sort of way. His hair was dark and, despite that he'd clearly made some attempt to tame it, utterly uncontrollable. His eyes, his most exotic feature by far, were probably deep and arresting enough to make girls swoon in flocks. But it was more his detached, aloof attitude that made him so attractive and enticing.

"You insult me," she said, her tone quiet but unmistakably jovial. "I was not aware that I'd fallen so low as to be considered a mere tabloid journalist. Perhaps I'd be better suited to writing for The Lantern?"

"Don't knock The Lantern. Skeeter's article on Ludo Bagman's various nefarious exploits made for fascinating reading this week," said Harry, tamely. "Who'd have guessed that he was once joined in bed by three Harpies?"

"I wasn't aware that anyone actually read The Lantern."

"Oh no, it certainly has an audience," replied Harry, then caught her look. "Bored housewives and their hair dressers. Nosy squibs looking to upset people at a Ministry ball. Those sorts of people."

Tonks nodded sagely, as though he'd imparted something exceptionally wise.

"Ah I see," she said. "And did you find anything more interesting than Ludo Bagman?"

"Oh, I found a great deal of interesting things," he said, then stood up straight, offered his arm to Tonks and gestured with the other, his whiskey sloshing slightly in the glass. "Let's go introduce you to my father."

Tonks considered him with a frown. Not for the first time, she half considered the possibility that Harry was utilizing Legilimency on her. If it weren't for her own formidable employment of Occlumency and that he was, to all appearances, a squib, she'd have realistically considered the possibility.

Yet Harry Potter undoubtedly knew, or guessed, more than he should. For wherever James Potter was, it was likely that he was accompanied by a number of the influential people that seemed to hang off his every word. It seemed as though Harry was offering her exactly what she'd come to the party for: an all-access pass to the upper echelons of the Ministry.

But why he was offering her this, was apparently to remain a mystery.

"Meeting your parents already? Gosh, don't you move fast?" she replied at last, but took his arm regardless. "Lead on."

He drew her across the ballroom and to a large door opposite to the entrance way that was flanked on either side by straight backed Hitwizards. As they grew closer, Tonks noticed Harry's back straighten slightly and an impassive sneer stretch across his face.

"Hello chaps," he said, his voice losing its baser tones and becoming nasal and dismissive. "Is my father still upstairs? I'd like to wish him a Merry Christmas."

"I'm sorry, sir," said one of the Hitwizards. Tonks thought his name might be Fisher. "We're under strict instructions from the Minister that his private party is not to be disturbed."

"Ah, I see," said Harry, his tone and expression cold. "I'm sorry, but do you know who I am?"

"I do sir," replied Fisher, his voice also gaining a hard streak. "Be that as it may, I can't let you pass."

"Take two seconds," said Harry, his sneer becoming more pronounced by the second. "Just to think about this. If you know who I am, you know who my father is. And if you know who my father is, you know that I can make your life exceedingly difficult, if I wish."

The wizard's eyes narrowed. Tonks knew that while James Potter was a high-ranking Auror and technically held no influence over the Hitwizards, he held a lot of sway with Scrimgeour and Bones. Not to mention his close ties with the Minister. Any one of whom could ruin Fisher's career with the scratch of their quill.

Tonks could see from the look in the Hitwizard's eyes that he'd followed the same line of thought. Yet still he hesitated. It was clearly not in his nature to cave to threats or bullying.

"Listen," said Harry, before he could speak. "You know me, Fisher. Or at least you've heard the rumours. I'm a squib, as I'm sure you've heard. Not to mention my friend here, whose pretty face hides a head full of air. So if you think upsetting the squib son of a well connected Auror is worth your pride, go ahead."

Tonks very gently tightened her grip on Harry's arm, her fingernails digging through his robes and into his flesh. But the pair of them managed to keep emotion off their faces while looking at the Hitwizard.

"Alright," relented Fisher, standing aside. His cohort did the same. "Alright you can go through."

Tonks allowed Harry to lead her through the large doors. Beyond them was an equally vast and impressive marble staircase, that stretched up to an enormous balcony that ran above their heads around three walls in the vast room.

However, Tonks wasn't even slightly interested in the architecture; instead, she wheeled on Harry and caught him with a stinging backhand to the face. He reeled backward before catching her eye and winking.

"A pretty face with an empty head?" she hissed, stepping forward to strike at him again.

And though he had the good grace to cower and scuttle away, he began to guffaw with laughter which only infuriated her more. Tonks' next swing missed him by half an inch and she abruptly found herself comically floundering on her high heels before falling into his waiting arms.

He peered down at her, his face still broken with a grin that stretched from ear to ear and she found she just couldn't help herself; she began to laugh as well.

It took them a good few minutes, not to mention more than one harassed looking employee imploring them to move on, for them to calm down enough to make their way up the enormous flight of stairs.

"You know I didn't mean it," he said, as they reached the door at the top of the stairs. He was still rubbing the large, red mark on his cheek.

"I will forgive you, if you never mention it again," she replied coolly, but smiled at him, nonetheless.

They strode through the ornate doors and into what was, Tonks realized, the room where the real politics were being conducted. Whereas the ball room was full to the brim with law makers, this room oozed money, opulence and true power.

A long table neatly bisected the room, stretching perhaps thirty feet from the door and at the head sat the Minister for Magic. All along the table's length, laughing and joking with those around them, were forty of the most influential wizard and witches in the country. Not just those like Amelia Bones, Rufus Scrimgeour and Barty Crouch who wielded immense political power, but also those like Lucius Malfoy. A wizard who held no political seat at all, but weilded as much influence as his enormous coffers could buy.

Almost at once, as the room's occupants noticed the pair enter, every voice paused, mid-conversation and their owners turned to look at the unexpected guests. Tonks had no problem picking out the confused faces of James Potter from the crowd, as the similarity between he and Harry was almost frightening. Sat beside the auror was her own cousin Sirius, whose brow had knotted slightly as he gazed across the room at them.

For a moment she was sure they were about to be ejected. Indeed, the sour faces worn by many of those along the table's length suggested they would be. However, Harry took a short step forward and made a low, sweeping bow directed down the length of table, straight at Minister Riddle.

"Minister," he began, his tone level but with the slightest hints of obsequiousness creeping into his voice. "Forgive the intrusion, I just came to thank my host for an invitation to such a prestigious event."

For a moment of hesitation in which nobody responded and Tonks shifted uncomfortably under Riddle's scrutiny. Then the Minister gave the slightest of smiles and inclined his head gently in Harry's direction, his handsome face lighting up as he considered the young man.

"The pleasure is entirely mine, Mr. Potter," said Riddle. "It is most unusual to meet a young man these days with any manners. I implore you, bring your lovely friend and sit on my right. I dare say that Barty and Mathilda won't resent the intrusion."

From the look that Mr. and Mrs. Crouchy gave Harry as they rose from their seats Tonks suspected that they may well hold it against him. But Harry, for his part, intercepted them as they passed, a huge smile on his face.

"Mr. Crouch," he declared happily, ringing him ecstatically by the hand. "My father's said ever so much about you, it's a pleasure to meet ever such a distinguished wizard."

This seemed to take some, though not quite all, of the venom from their glares and it was with a somewhat placated expression that they took a seat further from the Minister. Harry dropped into the seat that Mathilda Crouch had just left, leaving Tonks to take the seat directly beside Riddle.

She couldn't help but wonder, as she marveled at her proximity to the most powerful man in Britain, just how much thought Harry put into his decisions.

"Minister Riddle," said Harry, leaning across the table to shake his hand just as vigorously as he'd shaken the hand of Barty Crouch. "I trust you've read the fantastic articles of my friend Miss Tonks. She's been almost as keen to meet you as I."

A chill of horror flowed through Tonks' stomach and she turned an incredulous expression upon Harry. Her horror quickly turned to annoyance however, when she caught the grin that Harry gave her. He'd just put her in the perfect position to gather information for her next article and then immediately blown any legitimate cover she might have had. She was certain that there was no way she was getting anything useful out of Riddle now and she fully expected the Minister to call over a guard and have her summarily evicted.

But to her complete astonishment, Riddle began to laugh uproariously, as though Harry had just told a hysterical joke. Harry too was grinning stupidly from ear to ear and Tonks, unsure if she was the butt of their joke, felt heat rise to her cheeks and had to stifle a biting comment that flew to the tip of her tongue.

Luckily, it was Riddle who spoke first. He took Tonks' slender hand in his own massive grasp and shook it in a professional, yet gentle, manner.

"A pleasure, Miss Tonks," he said sincerely, the frivolous expression suddenly replaced by a genuine friendliness she'd never have expected. "I confess I've long wanted to meet you. Especially so after you so expertly skewered me with your quill last year. Unfortunately, I doubt my political or financial backers would have been happy with me giving an exclusive to one of my most influential critics."

"A critic?" asked Tonks, a small smile creeping its way on to her lips. "Perhaps, Minister. But don't mistake it for staunch opposition to your actions. I, like most of the press, fully support the current trend of liberal politics the Ministry has encouraged under your leadership, but one strives to keep perspective. There are still wrongs to be righted after all."

"Something anyone in my staff would agree to," conceded Riddle, with a nod. "A politician's work is never done, Miss Tonks. I hope that should I win the election again in September, I will do even more good work with the next term as I have in the last seven years."

"As do I Minister," said Tonks. "And should you ever wish to provide an interview, hearing your unadulterated words in an exclusive with me could be just the boost your campaign needs."

"I shall certainly bear that in mind—" began Riddle.

"Do you think winning your next election is likely?" interjected Harry, surprising Tonks, who'd almost forgotten he was there. "As far as I understand you built your last campaign on misleading propaganda and unfulfilled promises."

Both Tonks and Riddle turned their attention to Harry, who appeared completely engrossed in neatly demolishing a small cake with a fork. He didn't once look up at the Minister.

"A common enough misconception," replied Riddle, smoothly. Though Tonks thought Harry might have ruffled a few of the Minister's feathers. "I promised my voters an elimination of the so called 'upstart muggleborn politics'. I promised electoral reform that better protected the interest of full blooded witches and wizards. I promised a reduction in crime. I promised educational reform. I also promised economic growth.

"I have fulfilled all of those promises. No longer is the Wizenmagot split by the decisive issue of blood for no longer are the divisions between blood legitimized or recognized. No longer is the electoral process significantly undermined by the illegitimacy of unblooded, or half-blooded wizards and witches, for by my reform, we are all magical and this is all that matters.

I promised a reduction in crime and this too has been achieved. No longer are arcane, anachronistic laws enforced to the detriment of all concern. For the first time in our nation's history is the pursuit of progress supported by the Ministry, rather than forward thinking wizards being actively persecuted for experimentation. Likewise legitimate criminals protected by ancient, ignorant laws are now liable to prosecution—"

"Forgive me Minister," said Harry, interrupting him again. "As you must know, I myself am a squib. I am not criticizing your policies. Seven years ago, I would not have been entitled to legal representation in a court, you passed litigation to change that. What I question is not your politics, but your methods.

"Isn't it true that many of your most fervent supporters turned their back on you after you took office? Do you deny that they were somewhat misled by your vague promises? Do you really think it is possible for you to run a campaign against Bulstrode without the support of the 'Old Money' families?"

Many of the table closest to their end had fallen silent to listen to the conversation. Harry, his face set in stubborn lines, and Riddle, his face a mask of annoyance, were completely oblivious to their audience and instead examined each other intently.

"Those who felt misrepresented by my politics are nothing more than bigoted fossils," snapped Riddle, his eyes flashing. "I have no time for such people and neither do I want or need their money. A vast majority of magical Britain support my reforms and politics and it is this— logic and morals, that will win the day. Not the coffers of relics."

Tonks caught the righteous fury and pure power that rolled off Riddle in waves. It was all she could do to not flee in abject terror. Instead she wrenched her eyes from Riddle and found them fall upon Harry instead. For a split second she thought she could see an expression of intense loathing on his face, but as quickly as she'd spotted it, it was replaced by a broad, face splitting grin.

It almost made her think she'd imagined the steely glint of hatred in the squib's eye.

Almost.

"My apologies Minister," said Harry, his smile lessening to a more appropriate width. "I hope you will forgive my provocation. I was interested to know what it was that drove your relentless progress. I am glad to find we share many of the same views. Your passion is admirable indeed and I hope I didn't offend you too much."

For a minute, everyone seemed to wait with baited breath for the greatest wizard of his generation to respond. Then slowly, Riddle's furious visage ebbed away to the slightest of smiles. A second later he began to rock softly in his chair as a low, genuine chuckle began to escape his lips.

"Bravo, Mr. Potter," he said, when he finally stopped laughing. "You must forgive me for being so easily goaded, it has been too long since I have been challenged. There is no question of forgiveness for there is nothing to forgive. I have been thoroughly out-played this evening."

Try as she might, Tonks couldn't help but suspect that Riddle was not as amused as he was making out. Indeed, as he rose and took both of them once again by the hand, it seemed an almost cursory action, at complete odds with the more familiar and welcoming gesture he'd made before.

"I hope you will not consider me rude if I bid you adieu," said the Minister gruffly. "But I ought to mingle in the main room, if only for a short while."

"Not at all sir," replied Harry and his tone was also frosty. "I'd like to take the opportunity to wish you the best of luck in your upcoming campaign."

"Your support is appreciated Mr. Potter," said Riddle, then turned to Tonks. "Do contact the Under Secretary in the New Year, Miss Tonks. I'd be delighted to discuss my future reforms."

Tonks inclined her head slightly and then the Minister was gone, taking a good number of the table's occupants with him. The moment he had left the room, Tonks rounded on Harry, her expression furious.

"What, in Merlin's name, is wrong with you?" she demanded, waves of vitriol evident in her tone.

"Just checking something," said Harry cryptically and made as though to rise.

He was stopped in his tracks however as a hand descended from above him, grasped his shoulder firmly and rooted him to the seat.

"Harry, my lad," declared Sirius thickly, apparently overjoyed to see him. Tonks was briefly assaulted by the overpowering smell of vodka. "What a pleasant surprise. Didn't expect to see my favorite Godson at a Ministry party. Didn't think you went in for all this."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but was silenced by the abrupt arrival of his mother and father, who cooed and fussed over him. Overall, Tonks thought the squib looked very uncomfortable, but after his performance tonight, felt he probably deserved every minute.

Regardless, she wasn't going to get caught up in the awkward family re-union, so she quietly excused herself, rose to her feet and made her way from the room. With any luck she'd run into Riddle in the ballroom and get the answers she wanted for her latest article.

She descended the lavish marble staircase hastily, almost tripping on the last step and followed the Minister's party out through the mahogany doors. She noticed the gazes of the two Hitwizards stationed by the door and shook her hips slightly as she walked, knowing both pairs of eyes were fixed firmly to her behind.

There had to be some perks to their job after all.

Despite her best efforts, she couldn't managed to push her way through the crowd that quickly descended upon the Minister now that he'd exposed himself to the public. A dozen other reporters that Tonks recognized from the Prophet, along with what she suspected was half the wizarding world's press descended upon him.

Riddle, who was equal parts politician and celebrity and was obviously used to the spectacle of two dozen grown witches and wizards yelling questions, calmed them with a few quiet words and his most charming smile.

"I'm terribly sorry," he said, holding his hands up and beaming around. "I've just come out for a nice relaxing evening and to catch up with some old friends. I'll be more than willing to take questions in the press conference after my Yuletide speech. Until then, please excuse me."

This seemed to satisfy the gaggle of reporters and they were hastily escorted from the room by a trio of Hitwizards. Each one of whom looked even less enthused with their duties than Fisher and his cohort had.

She was just about to make a serious attempt to engage the Minister in conversation, when a loud bang echoed through the ballroom. One of the Hitwizards who'd been stationed on the balcony above came hurtling down to crash upon the crowd below, a trail of smoke billowing behind him.

Almost immediately the room descended into screams and hordes of the assembled wizards and witches began to run in every direction. Tonks spun as she caught two flashes of light in her peripheral vision and she just caught sight of two wizards wearing dark masks overpower the Hitwizards she'd just passed.

Instantly they were followed by another handful of flashes to her right as a number of the reporters who'd been questioning Riddle only a second ago drew wands, donned masks and incapacitated the Hitwizards escorting them out. A couple of the more able or brave wizards and witches in the crowd of guests made an attempt at stopping the masked assailants, but found themselves quickly and brutally overpowered.

Indeed, between the scurrying members of the crowd, Tonks could see that the only two people still putting up any resistance were Barty Crouch and Minister Riddle. The two men were fighting back to back and had apparently put paid to several of the masked men— if the bodies around them were anything to go by.

She turned again as another deafening bang reverberated around the room, above the sounds of people panicking and was immediately followed by a booming, magically loudened voice.

"EVERYBODY REMAIN CALM!" it roared, above the tumultuous noise. "THE DOORS ARE LOCKED, THE AURORS ARE DETAINED, WE HAVE HOSTAGES AND WE'RE NOT AFRAID TO KILL THEM!"

Tonks froze. She thought she recognized that voice— It couldn't be—

Her date jumped up on the small stage that the band had occupied earlier, a small girl clasped under one arm and his wand raised high above his head. The platform wasn't particularly tall, but it put him head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd, who stopped panicking quite as much, and turned to face him.

Even Crouch and Riddle stopped fighting at the sign of the little girl being held hostage and a moment later, they were deprived of their wands and shoved to the floor. It was at this moment that Sirius Black and James Potter leapt from the balcony above to engage the intruders. For an instant, Tonks thought that they might well stand a good chance of winning if only by virtue of their sheer ferocity. However the man on the platform, looking completely unperturbed, merely waved his wand at the ceiling.

The enormous chandelier hanging above the ballroom came crashing down on the pair of them. Potter, apparently more aware of his surroundings, leapt aside only to be immediately swamped by the masked men. Black on the other hand was caught completely unaware. A split-second before the Auror was crushed beneath a tonne of glass and brass, something hit him like a thunderbolt and carried him clear.

Harry's face as he climbed to his feet was one of abject fury. An expression like that on the face of any other man would have been terrifying, but instead it froze Tonks' blood with terror. He was a squib— what on earth was he thinking?

Regardless, the dark-haired boy threw himself at the nearest group of masked men, his fists flying. He seemed to land a couple of decent blows too, before sheer weight in numbers and a fair helping of magic restrained him. Even held fast and beaten, he never stopped shaking in apoplectic fury.

Tonks watched as her date stepped down off the stage on to the mostly empty dance floor — most of the guests were now cowering at the perimeters of the room — and crossed the floor to Harry.

"What do we have here?" he asked, his voice dark and malicious. "Potter's squib? I thought you'd done the world a favour and gotten yourself eaten."

The masked men still standing guffawed merrily at this jest and shook the boy roughly.

"Leave him, Mulciber," commanded Minister Riddle, standing again. "It's me you've come for, leave the boy alone."

"I don't know," said Mulciber, his eyes flashing with mirth. "I think the little freak would be better off dead, don't you? Besides, I fancy a little sport before we get down to business."

He lifted his wand and gently grazed the tip against Harry's face. The boy struggled again and snarled. Riddle stepped forward, looking as though he was going to intervene, but one of the masked men met him halfway and caught him a blow to the face that knocked him to the floor.

"Feral little beast, isn't he?" said Mulciber, ignoring Riddle completely in favour of staring at the boy before him. "Perhaps he needs a little reminder of his station in life. Crucio!"

The scream that escaped Tonks' lips was almost as hoarse and pained as the one that burst from Harry's. She found herself flying across the ballroom, wand out and pointed at Mulciber, her footfalls more balanced and ready than they'd ever been in her life. The darkest, nastiest curse she knew fell naturally to her tongue.

"ABHORREO!" she roared.

The bolt of yellow light thundered across the distance between them with a hiss of scorched air. Mulciber reacted instantly, breaking the curse he held on Harry and turning the spell toward the ceiling with a single flick of his wand.

Another simple twist sent Tonks' wand flying through the air toward him, which he caught with his other hand. A third wand motion bowled her to the floor. He walked over lazily, gazing down at the wand in his hand with interest.

"I recognise that scream," he said. "I did wonder where you'd got to tonight Rianne. I assumed you'd fucked someone else already, but a squib? Really?"

He regarded her for a second, his lip curling in disgust, then he turned his back on her and walked back over to Harry. The dark-haired squib hung limply between two masked men, the fight in him extinguished by the cruciatus. With an expression of distaste, Mulciber reached out and lifted the boy's face by his chin, then let it fall back to his chest.

"Something I've always wondered," he began, as though to himself. Abruptly he seized Harry by his shirt and hauled him bodily across the ballroom, dragging him through the broken glass of the chandelier and stopping by the large window that overlooked the courtyard thirty feet below. "Is if squibs can fly like any decent wizard can. Accio broom!"

A broom flew across the room from where it had undoubtedly been hidden and he roughly shoved it against Harry, attaching it to the boy's chest with a sticking charm. Harry moved slightly as the broom stuck fast to him, looking up at Mulciber blearily, as though confused as to why he was there.

Mulciber sneered back and lit the broom on fire with a flick of his wand. The scream that tore from Harry's lips was somehow worse than that when he'd suffered through the cruciatus. With a final last scathing glance at Tonks, Mulciber blew Harry off his feet and the boy, still burning and screaming, flew out of the window and disappeared out of sight.

A scream of abject terror and fury ripped through the ballroom as James Potter, still bound on the floor, watched his son fall.

Mulciber silenced him with a swift kick to the face.

"Right," he said, looking around, his tone suddenly light and jovial. "With all this excitement, I didn't really get to introduce myself. I am Leyland Mulciber and I'm here tonight to represent the interests of a group known as the Knights of Walpurgis.

"You've probably never heard of us before, but rest assured you'll be hearing a lot more of us in the coming weeks."

He paused here and looked around at the sobbing, cowering, terrified people in the room. Each of them gazed back at him, fear plainly written in their eyes. Only Riddle, Crouch and Black met his eyes with defiance.

Tonks knew that nothing like this had happened for decades. She knew that since the defeat of Grindelwald, the majority of these people had lived in times of relative peace and stability. She had some understanding of the matters, having seen the fighting that currently scorched Asia, but knew that open violence with magic was just simply not a way of life for these guests.

"Now to cover some of the question I'm sure you're asking yourselves: 'Why are we here?', 'What do we want?', 'Who is responsible?'

"The answer stands before you," he said, indicating Riddle, who still stood defiantly before him. "That's right, this is all the work of your Minister for Magic. The man we trusted to set the record straight. The man we paid and trusted to represent the views of legitimate wizards. The man who promised us the world and failed to provide.

"I, like my brothers in arms," he indicated the masked men. "Ask for a few simple things; that our world, our future and ultimately, our lives, be managed by those they belong to; wizards. For we are not, as some would say, the same as muggles. We are not, as some would say, the same as mudbloods, sub-humans and lesser species.

"No, we are wizards. It is our blood that will be spilled when the truths of this man's lies are revealed. It is our wives that will be lacking hospital beds. It is our children that will suffer the abhorrences from the pollution of our blood. It is our society that will collapse when none of us have the magical ability to still lift a wand.

"Since the time of the founders and before, we have been a proud, insular people that has seen no need to accept such filth inside our society. So I ask you, why start now? Yet I do not blame you, my friends, for you have been blinded to the threat by a new breed of politician."

He turned again to Riddle and struck him a blow that, while vicious, barely seemed to phase the Minister.

"I name you liar. I name you cheat. I name you heretic, turncoat and false prophet. You, who are more interested in goblin gold than the future of your people. You, who are more interested in votes than the protection of the people you were elected to serve.

"You, who is to blame for what has to occur tonight." He paused and stared at Riddle and the slightest of smirks reached his lips. "I hope your mountains of gold absolve the blood on your hands tonight."

Tonks couldn't help but stare at Mulciber as he turned to the room at large and considered his masked accomplices. She knew his words were madness, she could see the gleam of insanity in his eyes, could practically feel the tension beneath the surface of his skin.

"Kill them," said Mulciber to his accomplices. "Kill them all."

The entire room erupted into screams and flashes of green light as the masked men began to cut their way through the assembled crowd. Finally the terrified witches and wizards were forced into action, but it was far too late. They weren't prepared for anything like this and it seemed as though Mulciber's men were, at the very least, formally trained in the art of dueling.

Tonks watched as those around her began to fall; some to the cold green light of the killing curse. Some to arcing cutting curses that pained the dance floor with blood. She saw Mulciber come toward her, his dark eyes glittering with malice and she saw the terrible things he held in store for her.

And just as he reached her. Just as he lifted his wand and the corners of his lips turned inwards. Just as the world 'crucio' sprang to his mouth. Just as everything was at its darkest, a stunningly bright white light permeated the room, swallowing everything around her. The noises ebbed away too, to be replaced by a dull ringing that made her feel vaguely sick.

By degree, her vision returned and almost immediately she realised that the almighty flash of light had been an enormous explosion, for the doors to the lobby had been blown apart. The highly polished wooden floor was scorched and coated in a fine layer of powdered glass, marble dust and splinters.

And where the doorway had been stood a tall, broad wizard that exuded an odd, flickering blue glow, as though his perfect white robes burned with pale fire. His face, invisible beneath the hood of his robe, panned the room and his entire body was a mass of straining tension and incredible fury.

Around her, others were beginning to come to their senses. Mulciber faster than anyone else.

The pureblood rose, his wand outstretched and hurled a blistering curse in the direction of the intruder, who slapped it away with a curt, dismissive motion. When Mulciber moved to curse him again, the stranger flicked his wand and Mulciber was blown from his feet and sent careening across the room.

Several of the Knights seemed to have regained their faculties and leapt to their master's aid. But the stranger ignored them and the curses coming toward him until a moment before they hit him when he promptly dissolved into dust.

The bolts of light flew harmlessly through the dark cloud left in his wake and through the enormous hole where the door had once been. The Knights of Walpurgis looked around in complete surprise, clearly trying to ascertain where their opponent had gone.

A second later the enormous chandelier sprang to life, rising up on its six brass limbs and, skittering like a vast gleaming insect, came to bear upon the four wizards that had cast the curses. As quick as a flash, the animated creature lashed out in a flurry of flailing legs. Tonks winced as the four wizards gave way to an onslaught of vicious strikes. Though she knew they would have gladly killed everyone in the room, she wouldn't have exactly wished the fate on anyone.

Her gaze turned from the Knights of Walpurgis to the figure that appeared once more in the doorway, his wand raised. Slowly and gracefully he stepped his way across the dance floor while everyone stared dumbly at him and parted to allow him passage, his entire body still glowing blue.

As he approached, Mulciber rose groggily to his feet, his eyes narrowed and wand still firmly in his grip. The Stranger seemed quite unperturbed, though admittedly Tonks still could not see his face. Rather, from the way his fingers ran over the surface of his wand, she thought he was rather relishing the opportunity and merely biding his time to strike. The animated chandelier, having finished with the knights it had attacked, rose up behind him menacingly.

"You have been taught how to duel, Leyland Mulciber?" asked the stranger.

His voice was rich and clear with no trace of accent, inflection or emotion, except for such a faint sound of cruelty that Tonks thought she might have imagined it.

"First we bow," continued the stranger, bowing deeply to his opponent.

Tonks opened her mouth to scream a warning as Mulciber surged forward, a curse already flying from his wand and scorching the air. She needn't have bothered. The stranger glanced up, gave a dismissive flick of his wand and the spell disappeared into thin air.

"That was rude," said the figure, his blue glow flaring up around him, burning brighter and brighter until his entire body was almost painful to behold. "Manners cost nothing, Leyland."

Then they came together in a flurry of spellfire.

Leyland's first curse hit the figure's shield with a peal of thunder, the bright red light fragmenting and flying away in several different directions. Tonks fell to the ground to avoid one that hurtled toward her face and when she looked up again, it was Leyland on the defensive. The stranger was walking calmly forward, making broad motions with his wand that seemed to cast four or five spells at once.

One slash began by sending two bone-breaking curses straight at Mulciber who furiously blocked them. Half-way across the figure's body the wand emitted a stream of black razor beetles that Leyland staggered away from and burned away with a hurried burst of fire. The last part of the motion brought two wolves into existence at the man's heels and they leapt at Mulciber, harrying him back into retreat.

As the dark wizard coped with the two snarling canines, the figure made another broad motion with his wand and the wooden dance floor peeled away, the long lengths of polished timber folding together to create a half-dozen golems, each of which added to the pressure on Mulciber, who was now furiously backing away around the room, trying and failing to land a killing blow on one of his aggressors.

"What are you waiting for?" he screamed to the room. "Help me you idiots!"

The remaining Knights of Walpurgis reluctantly came to his aid, some attacking the figure's minions that were fast surrounding a panicking Mulciber. Others attacked the figure himself and a couple, perhaps more savvy than the others, attacked his chandelier.

None of them were very successful. While one golem burst into fire and disintegrated, the others just turned and made a beeline for the nearest knight. The animated creature lost a limb to a well placed bludgeoning curse, but this didn't seem to hinder it in the slightest and it flew to work, performing just as admirably with five legs as it had with six.

As for the figure, he didn't even look around as the curses flying toward him dissipated and dissolved into nothingness.

Instead he lifted his empty hand and a hundred thousand pinpoints of blue light soared from it, to buzz around the room attacking the Knights of Walpurgis indiscriminately. Tonks realised belatedly that it wasn't magic but thousands of fairies, no doubt plucked from the trees outside. They had given him his ethereal blue glow and now attacked at his command.

The small blue spheres of light wreaked havoc upon the ballroom. Some flinging themselves directly at the dark wizards and gouging at their eyes, some teaming up to pull wands from their hands and snap them, others just flying around and being a distraction. The golems and the chandelier were equally as devastating, cleaning up the incapacitated wizards with swift killing blows.

In the midst of the maelstrom, Mulciber and the figure dueled, their wands slashing through the air like sabres, enormous flashes of light erupting through the air. The wolves still snapped gamely at Leyland's heels and the pureblood wizard was beginning to pale in horror as the realisation that he couldn't win this duel slowly dawned upon him.

For all that he was a loud-mouthed bully, Tonks knew that Leyland Mulciber was a more than capable wizard and as such, his opponent's casual brilliance was all the more impressive in contrast. Likewise, Tonks knew, had known almost from the beginning of the duel, that the white-robed wizard belonged to a whole other echelon of wizard.

Then as quickly as it had all begun, it was over. Mulciber collapsed backward to the ground, his eyes wide open in surprise. His followers were either dead, or had been subdued by the other witches and wizards in attendance. The fairies had fled to parts unknown. The chandelier collapsed to the ground, as lifeless as it had always been and the wolves and golems vanished.

Silence reigned in the ballroom for a minute and then the crowd broke into a simultaneous round of applause for their savior. Who, for the first time, looked anything other than cool, calm and collected.

If anything, thought Tonks with the slightest amusement, he looked awkward and shy.

He glanced around him warily, like a wild animal caught in a trap, then lifted one hand and promptly disappeared in an enormous flash of fire to a cacophony of gasps and tiny shrieks.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Sun Dog  
Act 1, Scene 6**

The room was very dark and in that regard it suited the temperament of the man who owned it perfectly. Only the flickering light of the fire cast any illumination into the gloomy study and only the slow furling of pages broke the overwhelming silence.

But both of these facts were very agreeable with the room's sole occupant. Indeed, they were just the way he preferred such things these days. In his youth he'd enjoyed bright lights, chattering voices and the comfort of company but now he only really sought solace in solitude.

Whether it was a natural result of his ageing, or because he had so seldom an opportunity to be alone these days, he didn't know. Nor did he care much. What mattered more was that it gave him a chance to contemplate, to find perspective and to organise his mind.

His thoughts today were not especially happy ones. For in the last decade or so, they had rarely been. He had thought, at the start of his political career, that things would be easier when he was Minister. He hadn't been long incumbent before he realised just quite how naive he'd been.

No matter what he'd done, things seemed to have spiralled further and further out of control for Tom Riddle in the seven years since. Seven years had seemed such a long time when he'd set out but with each major victory he'd managed, with every huge bound forward, his goal appeared so much further away.

And never had that seemed more the case than it had in the last week. He and his Ministry had been blind-sided by these Knights of Walpurgis. He had known dissent was ripe among the Purebloods and the other branches of staunch conservatives but he wouldn't have dreamed in a hundred years that it might have lead to a violent uprising.

But it wasn't Leyland Mulciber and his supporters that had undermined him as much as the vigilante that had stopped them. While he was certainly grateful for the intervention of the powerful wizard, it had proven that ultimately the Ministry was unprepared and unable to deal with the problem.

He stared down at the paper in his lap and read, for the hundredth time today, the enormous three page story that dripped with sycophantic praise for the 'masked hero'.

'The Sun Dog' they all called him now. Though why they'd chosen that particular name was a mystery.

Riddle snorted angrily and turned the page with an action so violent that the parchment tore. It wasn't as though it were the possibility of someone so powerful working beyond Ministry control that frustrated him so. No. It was that every newspaper universally glamorised his actions. They glossed over the men and women he'd killed in the process and focused entirely on the romantic image of an anonymous hero fighting to protect and redeem society.

He knew that this would only lead others to emulate it. Others without the magical power or presence to back up their actions. He was almost certain that it'd get people killed.

He sighed and turned to the next page of the paper, which wasn't much better. A whole page article on Harry Potter, with an enormous picture of him sleeping in a hospital bed in St. Mungos, the burns on his face and body clearly evident.

'When violent, blood thirsty dissidents descended upon a formal Ministry Party,' he read. 'Few stood up to be counted. However, this was not the case for one brave teenager who confronted a threat that several hundred adult wizards refused to. 'Harry Potter, aged sixteen, is unlike any boy you might meet in our world today. While in light of these events he might be described as brave, valiant or (as one witness insists) a hero, two days ago only one word would have been used to describe him: squib...'

Riddle threw the paper aside with disgust. He would describe Harry Potter with three different words: foolish, reckless and idiotic.

He let his head fall into his hands and massaged his greying temples. He knew full well that the article went on to describe how the Ministry had failed the boy from the day he was born to the moment he flung himself, fists flying, at a powerful, skilled wizard.

He knew because he'd read the article at least twenty times today trying to make sense of it.

And yet he couldn't. None of it made sense. From Leyland Mulciber's sudden attack to the wizard that had appeared and killed him the entire thing was a mystery to Tom Riddle. He had no idea what exactly had been the catalyst to spark such a violent uprising or who the mysterious figure was. Nor was he entirely sure whether he disagreed or agreed with the wizard's actions.

Further more, Riddle wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know. Perhaps it would just be better if he ignored the vigilante. But of course he couldn't. The public would expect an official response. In fact they'd certainly demand one.

With this knowledge in mind, he'd arranged a small meeting with the press tomorrow. Though just what he would say, he wasn't sure yet.

Slowly and with a weariness unlike any he'd ever known before, he rose from his seat, stooped to lift the paper from the floor and fed the paper to the fire. He watched, with a cathartic release, as the words were lost to the lick of the flames and felt his entire body deflate as they disappeared up the chimney.

He glanced around the room forlornly and his eyes fell upon the drawn curtains in the corner. Some weeks ago he'd drawn them as Magical Maintenance had been protesting some slight or other by enforcing perpetual sunlight on the Ministry and as such Riddle had left the curtains closed. Now however, he felt as though some sunlight would be exactly what he wanted.

He crossed the room in a flash, parted the thick material with as much vigour as he could manage and then peered out.

It was all that Riddle could do not to die of shock.

For there was a face in the window peering back at him. Indeed, not just a face, but an entire person crouched behind the glass. A figure draped in white robes, whose face was darkened by shadow despite the bright sunlight that poured through the window.

At first Riddle thought it might be the wizards in Magical Maintenance playing a practical joke, but then the figure indicated the window latch and Riddle felt genuine confusion well up inside him.

It couldn't be a person on the other side of the glass. It just couldn't be. He was buried underground in an office that was only accessible by a single door and the lone fireplace. The window was only a stretch of wall pretending to be a view, nothing more substantial than a portrait.

Then it all became apparent in a rush of comprehension— exactly like a portrait! And in portraits, there were subjects that moved, talked even. He was so tired that he'd momentarily let his imagination get carried away with itself. People at enchanted windows? Nonsense.

He'd almost convinced himself of this when the figure leaned forward and rapped it's knuckles against the glass with a sharp crack. Riddle gaped and the figure indicated the latch again.

Riddle tentatively reached out and grasped the handle, knowing full well that the enchanted window couldn't open. It was only an illusion after all. His hand shook as he unbolted it and tugged. To his undying surprise the window opened smoothly and The Sun Dog stepped into the room and looked around.

Riddle tried his hardest to keep his face stoic, but knew he was failing. His mind raced at a thousand miles an hour, part trying to come up with some sort of hypothesis, part still insisting that it was only an enchantment.

The Sun Dog seemed to have no such concerns as he walked to the middle of the room, still gazing around him. Riddle ignored him, momentarily overcome by his own curiosity, and reached through the open window. His fingers came up against the cold stone upon which the enchantment was affixed.

"Did you have a good Christmas, Minister?" asked The Sun Dog, his voice rich and clear, as it had been at the party.

The man seemed perfectly at ease as he walked to Riddle's desk and lifted the lone photograph from the table and glanced at it. His gloved hands held the frame delicately as he gazed into the picture.

"Not particularly," replied Riddle. He hadn't ever liked Christmas, not even as a child. "How about you?"

"Ah yes," said The Sun Dog. "I'd half forgotten you were an orphan."

It was a cryptic response perhaps, but Riddle understood at once. This man, this wizard, knew that the pleasure of Christmas was in the company, not the day itself. Instinctively Riddle knew his visitor was also an orphan.

Of course, it could have been simple observation and deduction to conclude that Riddle had spent Christmas alone. But something in the wizard's tone, in the way he'd constructed the words— Riddle just knew that there was an unspoken 'too' at the end of the sentence.

This intrigued Riddle, not because he felt any sense of bond with the man for their shared difficulties, for their shared experiences of empty festive days. But because this was an opportunity to get the measure of the man.

He turned to face his visitor, all thoughts of the enchanted window temporarily shelved.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" asked the Minister, staring at the back of the man's hood intently, half hoping that he might see straight through it if he tried hard enough.

"I need you to call the papers off," said The Sun Dog, replacing the photo on the desk. "The attention is limiting."

Riddle strained his ear to try and find some identifying tone in the man's voice. Some clue as to where the man was from, who he'd grown up around, who he might be. But the harder he listened, the more flawless the tones became.

Belatedly, Riddle realised that the man had charmed his voice not to reveal his identity. He'd never heard of such a spell, in fact, he suspected that it might well be an invention of the wizard. But in the face of such talents as he'd already displayed, such a trick was neither here nor there.

"Silencing the free press doesn't fall under my list of powers or privileges," replied Riddle, his tone light.

"Now Minister, don't tell me you don't have Barnabas Cuffe and half his competition's editors under your thumb," retorted The Sun Dog, still not turning to face Riddle. "It's practically a necessity of the position."

Tom Riddle couldn't help but laugh.

"I doubt anyone has ever claimed to have Barnabas Cuffe under their thumb, let alone actually have him there," he admitted.

Tom Riddle couldn't help but wish he had actually had the editor of the Daily Prophet on a short leash. It'd certainly make attaining a second term an enormous sight easier. The Sun Dog finally turned and Riddle felt a pair of eyes bore into his own, despite being magically concealed by his hood.

"So you won't help me?" asked The Sun Dog, a distinctly malevolent tone creeping into his otherwise emotionless voice.

Riddle gritted his jaw and flexed his fingers in preparation for the confrontation he felt that they were teetering on the brink of. Then he abruptly changed his mind and the topic.

It wouldn't do to fight before he knew more about the man.

"Did you see these?" he asked, indicating the stack of papers beside his chair. "They're calling you 'The Sun Dog'."

The Sun Dog too seemed to think better of duelling and shrugged in response.

"It's as good a name as any," he said, his voice once again betraying no emotion. "Wish I'd thought of it."

"Some were calling you something else for a while," continued Riddle, picking one of the papers at random and flicking through it.

"The White Griffin," suggested The Sun Dog.

"That's the one. Not quite as enigmatic is it?"

"Like I said," said wizard, shrugging. Riddle thought he might just detect a semblance of amusement creep into his tone. "Wish I'd thought of 'The Sun Dog'."

Riddle found himself laugh; a genuine laugh that sounded high-pitched compared to the polite, throaty chuckle that he usually adopted. He saw The Sun Dog tense momentarily, as though he might attack, then relax almost as quickly before turning away.

"Why are you doing this?" asked the Minister, changing the subject once again.

"Leyland Mulciber wasn't reason enough?" asked The Sun Dog, seeming to understand Riddle's cryptic question.

"Fair point," admitted Riddle. "But you were doing it before the ball."

The Sun Dog remained silent for a while, then spoke in a softer, more hesitant tone.

"I hadn't seen those stories in the papers," he said, at last.

Riddle felt a little thrill of victory flash through him. There hadn't been any mention in the papers of any previous sightings, but he knew that you didn't just turn up to a Ministry function with enchanted clothes on the off chance of a coup.

He carefully schooled his face as The Sun Dog turned to face him.

"Sometimes people just need protecting," he said.

"You didn't exactly protect Leyand Mulciber," countered Riddle quickly, feeling again as though he'd scored a point.

"Sometimes people just need killing," replied the wizard opposite, in such a dark tone that Riddle felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

The Minister frowned slightly. Had there been a threat in the man's words? Had it been aimed at him?

Riddle forced himself to chuckle, but the knowledge that it hadn't been a joke left an awful, sour taste in his mouth. Once again he had the feeling that the blank, shrouded face was staring into him, stripping away his flesh and boring into his very soul.

But he didn't look away. Instead his blood rose to the challenge and something deep inside him screamed for him to cast the first curse.

He pushed the feeling away viciously, cramming it down and crushing it beneath the façade he'd carefully schooled into reality.

"I'd honestly prefer it if you could keep the killing to a minimum in future," he said, attempting a grin but only managing a thin smile. "I do agree with what you're doing. I think your heart is in the right place. But you've got to understand that I can't be seen publicly endorsing it. I'm content to play a bit loose with the aurors, but if you keep killing, I'll be forced to stand against you."

The Sun Dog cocked his head and Riddle, not for the first time, furiously wished he could see the other man's face. Just for some insight into what he was thinking.

"Was that a threat?" asked the masked wizard eventually. "Because from where I'm standing, you're just not a very threatening man, Minister."

Riddle felt his face slip into a deep scowl and furiously fought it from his features. He considered the man before him for a long moment, partially sizing him up and partially taking the time to bite back the horde of verbal ripostes that had leapt to his tongue.

They stood for a moment in silence, but Riddle could see the same shapes forming in the man's posture that he had demonstrated when duelling Mulciber. Riddle knew that the wizard was seconds away from drawing his wand and the Minister slowly raised his hands in a placating manner.

"I'm not threatening you," he assured the faceless wizard in a calm voice. "I'm trying to help you. I'll do as much as I can to stop the press from prying too much, keep the aurors off your case. But I can't be seen to endorse a murderer."

The Sun Dog's transformation at these words was extraordinary. Despite not being able to see his face, Riddle could tell from his body language that he'd slipped effortlessly from confrontational to relaxed. Possibly even amusement.

He realised instantly that there hadn't ever been any danger of a duel, but that the wizard had been trying to push him. To discover something about him. Riddle suspected that the entire goal of The Sun Dog's appearance tonight was to test him in some way.

He wondered if the masked wizard had found what he'd come looking for.

"You've offered everything I could have ever asked for," replied The Sun Dog, in a gracious tone. "Unfortunately, I'm going to have to refuse your very generous offer."

Riddle was somewhat taken aback with this sudden turn of events.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"Well it's a very enticing offer, I have to admit," said the wizard, moving back toward the window he'd entered from. "But I've a problem with it Minister."

"And what's that?"

The Sun Dog pulled the window open and set one foot on the sill before looking back.

"I'm not done killing," he said and lifted himself into the window.

Riddle reacted immediately; he whipped out a hand, seized the wizard's robes and hauled him back into the room.

"Don't you—" he began, but the next thing he knew he was cut off by thick ropes that coiled tightly around him.

He fell flat on his face, his arms bound to his sides. With astonishment he realised that The Sun Dog had been able to react, draw a wand and curse him in the time it had taken him to speak two words.

A little ripple of admiration ran through Tom Riddle, before he viciously crushed it.

He heard the hooded wizard draw closer, crouch beside him and felt the man's hot breath against the side of his face.

"It was nice catching up Tom," he whispered. "Sorry I've got to leave so quickly, but you know, places to be, people to kill."

Riddle rolled onto his back to see The Sun Dog cross the room in two strides and leap neatly up onto the window-sill, where he turned momentarily back to the Minister.

"Oh and Voldemort? I'm keeping an eye on you."

The white-robed man left without another word, passing through the window as if it were perfectly normal to step in and out of illusions. Perhaps for him it was.

Riddle broke the enchanted ropes holding him the moment the window had closed behind him and rose, stretching the soreness from his momentary confinement out of his muscles. He didn't even bother investigating the window again, whatever magic the mysterious wizard had used, it was probably beyond him without serious investigation.

As it happened, the man's parting words had almost forced everything else out of his head. The name that he'd given Riddle had sent a little thrill of fear through the Minister. There were only a handful of people who knew of the foolish moniker he'd given himself at Hogwarts and fewer still who'd dare speak it.

Tom could only think of one such man. Could The Sun Dog be Albus Dumbledore? He was certainly the only other wizard with the sort of talent that the man exuded. But Tom rejected this idea almost immediately. Dumbledore had certainly never liked him at Hogwarts and had treated him with suspicion even after his ascension to Minister. Indeed, he may have even known Tom's nickname, there were few things that occurred at Hogwarts that the Headmaster didn't know.

But no, Albus Dumbledore was a relic. Obsessed with his school and producing the next generation of wizards. Whatever feelings of mistrust he might have felt for his former student, would have been acted upon in a slow, carefully planned and deliberate manner. The intentions and actions were hasty and outright threats were certainly not Albus' style. Not to mention that The Sun Dog's movements and voice were of a young man.

So who could it be?

Tom Riddle returned to his armchair, his brow split by a frown and his brain whirring faster than it had in years with unanswerable questions.


End file.
